


Caution

by seasonsgredence



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Blood, Death of a loved one, M/M, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, cop, criminal, will add more tags as i go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonsgredence/pseuds/seasonsgredence
Summary: Two dangerous men, but one of them doesn't know it yet.Modern AU, probably no magic but I reserve the right to change my mind.TL;DR Graves is a straight-laced cop. Credence is a delinquent who tempts him in more ways than one.Loosely based on my interpretation of sugaradore's graphic here: https://seasons-gredence.tumblr.com/post/153912146923/seasons-gredence-seasons-gredence





	1. The Calm Before the Storm

Thirty minutes to freedom.

  
The clock reads 9:30, but it changes to 9:31 as you stare. The same moment the light turns green and you continue to drive down the rain-slicked hellhole your town calls Main Street.

"Could you change the music?" asks the voice behind you. For a split second, you forgot you weren't alone.

What stations do old ladies like? You fumble with the radio. Black Eyed Peas are a hard no. Talk radio is always a risk. Sports. Air conditioning ads. Finally, Frank Sinatra. You take a peek in the mirror to see whether or not this pleases her, and the look on her face is indeed pleasant.

Sinatra's crooning placates her for a minute before she opens her coral-stained mouth. "You're very handsome, officer."

You pause and briefly look in the mirror a second time, this time at yourself. It's been a good while since anybody told you that, aside from the sarcastic food court kids who complimented you on your "brow game." Whatever that is.

It's not that you've lost your looks. It's just that your eyes haven't had a light in them for years. Probably better that way.

  
Before you can thank the old lady, she continues. "You remind me of my son. Beautiful boy." She smiled knowingly, light teasing in her voice, "he was rough around the edges also." Was. You feel a knot in your stomach and suddenly merge into the right hand lane.

  
"My place is to the lef-"

"I know, ma'am." You say, in your most comforting matter-of-fact tone. New Jersey may not have a lot to offer, but living in the diner capital of the world comes in handy sometimes. You pull into the parking lot. Rocco's 24/7 Diner. What it lacked in decor it made up for in convenience. "I'd like to buy you some food."  
She opens her mouth to protest, but her stomach growls, as if on cue. "Thank you, officer. I di-"

You've already slammed the door and walked out to open hers.

She clutches her garish purse as she takes your hand for support before wobbling out. Within five minutes you walk in, make eye contact with Rocco's daughter, and get a booth.

"So important," fawns the old lady with more gentle teasing. She looks at you, almost begging you to acknowledge her humor. You look at the clock. She catches you and frowns. Fuck.

"You should have seen me in New York," you offer. "I was a big shot there." You give her your warmest smile.

"NYPD?" She asks, eyebrow raised, "why did you move? Kids?"

"I needed a change," you mumble into your straw before tasting the most disgusting water New Jersey has to offer.

For the moment, the old lady doesn't press the matter. "Dolores," she says.

Fuck. Pleasantries. This was not the day. You have a separate mental tank reserved for polite exchanges. Today the tank was nearly depleted. _This is better than being alone,_ you remind yourself.

  
"Charles Graves." You smile weakly. A partial lie, but who would admit being named Percival? You haven't for decades and you're not about to start. You shake her fragile hand. She's a nice lady. It isn't her fault you're a miserable fuck.

"When will my car be ready?" Dolores asks. You remind her, for the twelth time, you have no jurisdiction over such a thing. Truth be told, you don't have power over much of anything anymore. You like it that way... most days. A few unruly diner patrons meet your gaze and sink into their seats. Luckily, they didn't get that memo.

Outside, the drizzling turns into a small shower.

"Looks like we have time for three courses," jokes Dolores.

"I'm in no rush," you say, trying to sound light-hearted but failing. Okay, take two. Sound like a decent human being this time. "You can get whatever you like. And something for tomorrow if you want." There you go. That's what sincerity sounds like, asshole.

And you were sincere. You _are_ sincere. But it's often highly inconvenient.

"I couldn't take your money," she pauses, blatantly trying to remember the name you just told her before settling on "officer."

  
"You're a tax payer," you say dismissively.

"Yes, but I'm sure you have a family."

"I don't."

This was, of course, the perfect time for Katrina to come over and take your drink orders. Dolores gets a root beer float. You know better than to order what you really want while on the clock. Dolores reads the seemingly endless menu, which ranged from 99 cent quesadillas to a $35 lobster dinner. That's a Jersey diner for you. For a second, you think you got away with that comment, and there would be no further questions.

"Tuna salad or a turkey club?" Dolores wonders out loud. You pretend to look at your menu, but you and everyone in that kitchen know you always get the same thing. Still, pretending to read is a great way to avoid conversation. Like a millennial faking a phone call, or so you hear.

"Club," she says quietly before putting her menu down and her reading glasses in that hideous beaded bag. "Now..." Oh, here it comes. "What do you mean, no family? A handsome guy like you?"

"I used to be married," you grumble. You close your mouth, but then you realize there is no escaping her line of questioning. A taste of your own medicine, you guess. You know you might as well put it all out there so you can just eat your damn meatloaf in peace. "She died before we could have children." No, you know the yenta is going to keep asking. "Car accident."

Dolores nodded, "My husband died a few years back."

There are plenty of things to say that come to mind, but you would prefer silence, and that's what you get for a while.

10:31.

Dolores picks at her turkey club, about which she found no less than six things to complain, and you wait. Your plate has been empty for what seems like hours. _Better than being alone_ , you remind yourself.

 

11:38.

You pull up to her place, mentally preparing for ten minutes of goodbyes. But all you hear is silence.

You look back at her still body and feel a sense of panic. Then she snores.

 _Figures,_ you think bitterly as you dig through an endless supply of candy wrappers, coupons and receipts to find the keys at the bottom of that abomination of a purse. Quietly, and without a second thought, you unlock her door and carry her in. First you tuck her in, then you put the leftovers in her fridge. The house is depressing. Bills stacked, faded photographs on the mantle, a collection of long-expired food in the pantry. You take your wallet out and leave $40 on her kitchen island. She probably won't even realize it wasn't hers to begin with.

 

12:07

At long last, you are back at your place. Depressing in its own right, but it's home. You turn on the TV for white noise and pull out two pints, one dark ale, the other Edy's, which you dig your spoon in savagely.

Your feet are tired and you are emotionally taxed. You could have been on this couch hours ago. _No good deed goes unpunished._

 

2:16

You wake up with a start. You fell asleep on the couch again, third beer still in your lap. You momentarily forget what woke you. Then you see him.

  
Across the street, cackling to an unknown person in a car. Your neighbor, the little shit. He's 19. 21. Something like that. Old enough to get into trouble past midnight, young enough to stay awake past midnight. Sometimes, to your dismay, he slams his car door at 5 AM before sneaking into his long-suffering parents' home.

You get up and stare out the window, arms crossed. He can't see you, but you can see him. The headlights illuminate his smug little face as he grins at another boy, now exiting the car to hug him.

The boy's lips form a fond smile as they share a lingering hug, and the second boy turns around to go back in the car. The neighbor boy grabs him by his revolting American Apparel hoodie and pulls him, giggling, into a kiss. Not a brotherly kiss, either.

You watch this incident for as long as you can stomach before violently closing your blinds.

You get yourself to bed, looking through yesterday's notifications on your phone.

16 voicemails.

38 spam emails.

2 texts.

1 reminder: "Wedding anniversary."

 


	2. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing ever happens in Jersey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. This is also in 2nd POV. Also, sorry for an uneventful chapter. It's a lot of character study/world building stuff, oops. At least it's short? Next chapter will be more exciting, so stick around- please?
> 
> If, for whatever reason, you want to post about the fic on Tumblr, the hashtag is #cautiongravebone.

You wake up after 11. You can't remember the last time that happened. But this week has harder than most. The sun is shining and birds are chirping, but if you had it your way the world would be blue-tinted, like a critically acclaimed drama film.

  
You always hate having the day off, but today was another thing entirely. You have nothing and still feel as if you lost something.

  
You stare up at your ceiling, eyeing its cracked foundation. Were you more poetic you may laugh at the symbolism.

  
Kids laugh somewhere in the distance and you cover your head with your comforter, drifting off into a defiant sleep.

  
You wake again, bleary eyes watching that kid's silver car pull into the driveway. You look at the clock. 3:46. It is at this moment you remember you neglected to take your trash in. You handwaved it, letting yourself forget your chores in honor of your dead wife, but it bugs you, knowing those trash cans are out there. That the neighbors know you left them.

  
You rub your eyes, vision coming back clearly, and put on a cardigan before heading out your garage door. The sun is blinding, and the reflection off that silver shitmobile isn't any help. You pick up your recycling bin and put it back in the garage without incident.

  
You walk out to retrieve the bulky garbage bin when you hear it.

  
"Charles in charge!"

The kid is across the street. He left his car and is now beaming, probably with pride that he referenced a TV show from long before his day.

You grumble and do that open-palmed, barely-fooling-anyone pseudo-wave neighbors do. Your face is not pleasant. Half squinting, half glaring. He looks like he may say something, but you turn you back to him, walking into your garage to drop the bin where it belongs. You look over your shoulder. There are three things nagging you. The sun, the kid, and the urge to get your mail.

You walk out again, ignoring the kid's gaze from above his texting, and open your mailbox. Lots of spam and a box you sure as hell didn't order. You'd be intrigued if you weren't annoyed by the hassle of carrying it all under your arm.

You look at the kid, sure he was going to make a crack about the box, but he's still texting. Typical. He finally looks up and gives you a small, polite smile. Something about this eye contact makes you feel vulnerable, or maybe guilty. Probably because you know what he doesn't- that you saw him last night. You saw him experience something private, something beautiful, something secret.

You turn around.

"G'night," says the kid. You shoo away the sentiment with a hand gesture.

When you walk back in the house, you feel weak. You drop the mail on your coffee table without regard. The mysterious red box, which _should_ fill you with curiosity, is merely a nuisance. You're done with detective work, even if the case is simply a box. You idly wonder if it's a bomb and find you'd barely give a shit.  
You hear the slam of a car door, which your guts tells you belongs to that silver car. You go upstairs and run a bath, sinking into it until you can't tell why your face is wet.

_Beep._

From your kitchen, you hear the sound of a new voicemail. Even from under the water, you recognize the grating sound of your former superior. If New York City were a man, it would be him. The human equivalent of traffic, tourists and rat piss. You sit in your filth for another minute before leaving the bath, wiping your feet on the rug and heading downstairs.

You replay the message from your long-obsolete answering machine.

"Hey there, Charles," the voice is already annoying, but notably tense, "this is Chief..." a change in tone. More casual. "It's Marty Sanders." If you're on first name basis with the man, this is the first you've heard of it. The message goes on, with a few minutes of strained, one-sided small talk. Finally, he gets to the point.

"Look..." Sanders audibly gulps. "We have some new information. You need to come in."


	3. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in New York, a night in a rage.

 

_Hello, Charles_

_You don't know me, but I knew your wife._

_Please accept this gift, from my family, in her honor._

_Sincerely, Samuel Witz_

 

 

You have no idea who Samuel Witz is, or why he thought a grown man- a grown _widower_ \- wanted a box of long-stem red roses on his wedding anniversary.

 

You crumple up the red wrapping paper and drop it in the kitchen trash bin, just as your coffee machine buzzes. It's the crack of dawn. The sky is orange and pink behind your blinds. You check your watch. 6:57 AM. This is far from your earliest hour, but the days of 2 AM stake outs are long behind you. You go upstairs, put on something presentable unceremoniously, and get in the car. Just like everyone else in Bergen County, you are headed to New York City.

The realtor lied to you. These are the most miserable 45 minutes you can imagine. Then again, you don't have much of an imagination.

By the time you get to the right block, you could swear you've sprouted 5 grey hairs.

The valet, also Charles, remembers you. You're not sure you're grateful for this.

"Hey, Charles," he says, beaming with the mischief of someone holding a secret. His eyes are wide with anticipation of your response.

"Hi, Charles." You respond, to which he laughs boisterously.

"Charlie G!" Another valet yells, mid-chatter with an unseen driver.

It's too early to be this annoyed. You smile and wave, handing Charles Number Two the keys as you straighten your clothing.

You walk in the NYPD building. The second your Oxford shoes touch the marble, you are hit with more emotion than you would prefer. Nostalgia, home sickness, pride and guilt. You keep walking, not allowing yourself the luxury of feelings. Your power walk, bordering on a jog, couldn't save you from Abernathy.

"Mr. Graves, sir!"

You turn around, trying to maintain a look of polite civility. It's not even 9 AM and patience tank is dangerously low. You look down at the boy. Well, man. The head of permits, you first met him when he was just an intern. He liked you immediately, for reasons you'll never know. Abernathy's eyes look up at you with a warm adoration. The guy must watch a lot of detective shows.

"Hello." You say in the warmest shade of curt. "It's been a while."

He looks like he may hug you, and you realize what you're witnessing is pity. He resists his urge and shakes your hand instead.

"The big guys in Jersey let you visit us?" Abernathy asks, his gaze surveying your outfit, or maybe judging the extra pounds you put on since you moved. Or, rather, the pounds of muscle that dissolved since moving.

"I doubt they'll even notice I'm gone," you grumble, both self-deprecating and entirely serious. Of course you cleared this visit with the powers that be. It's not every day an NYPD Chief requests a lousy beat cop by name. You didn't bother to tell them why. They didn't ask, and you didn't want to tell them.

Abernathy rambles on about his guinea pigs, or cats, or whatever. You nod on autopilot and take the first opportunity to leave the conversation.

As the silver elevator doors close on you view, you are finally honest with yourself. That pit in your stomach is not impatience. You could have gone the entire morning without encountering a single soul and you would still feel it. You're nervous- terrified, even. You have no idea what Sanders needed to talk to you about, you've been silencing hypothetical situations ever since you listened to that wretched voicemail.

You're alone in the elevator, wondering what you will know on your ride down that you don't know now. Whatever it is, you're sure you won't like it.

When the doors open, Chief Marty Sanders is standing in front of you. Not his secretary. Not him _and_ his secretary. Just him. He's been waiting. His hand clutches a folder- from the looks of Marty's pained smile, whatever's in it is a doozy.

You inwardly groan as you once again enter The Small Talk Zone during your walk to his office.

Finally, Marty, his kindly face overwhelmed with nerves, takes a long swig from his Dr. Pepper and dives in. "This is about Theresa."

 _Theresa._ You hadn't heard that name in a long time. Your avoidance was, of course, mostly intentional. Somehow, avoiding your dead wife's name made it hurt less. Not even Samuel Witz could refer to her by name. But there it was. The aching. You look at Sanders, suddenly fragile. His palms are sweat-drenched, and yours are shaking. Seconds feel like hours. Finally you open your dry mouth and croak, "what is it?"

\---

9 hours later, you lie in your bed, eyes wide with mania. The entire universe has re-aligned. Your state is so emotional it circled to numbness and back several times.

With an absent mind, you listen to the ice cream truck making its way down the street. Without a second thought, you proclaim your hatred for it. You hate the ice cream truck, you hate Beverly Drive, you hate New Jersey and you hate yourself.

_Clink._

You moved an inch and are suddenly very aware of the 6 glass bottles at your hip. In your haze, you removed their labels, folded them, ripped them, and tossed them onto the floor like some sort of widower's confetti.

You're done being sad. You are furious.

The goddamn truck is right at that kid's house- across the street and to the right. You idly imagine his order. Probably a popsicle. Y'know, because... fuck. You nearly forgot the sight of his tongue inside that other guy's mouth. Now's not the time to think about that shit. Right now you're being angry about your dead wife. You roll your eyes at your own thoughts. You can't even be dramatic correctly.

You open your hand, which was in a white-knuckled fist, and let some stray label remnants shower down your fingertips. You huff and get up, pacing like a lunatic. All this anger and no outlet. In their infinite wisdom, Bergen County gave you a week "to process." You hate time off, and they sure as fuck know that.

Your pacing is faster now. Your face is red and your breath is short. The rage is coming back. You look out the window and see happy suburbs. People with golden retrievers and kids with their ice cream cones. Without realizing what you're doing, you throw your fist towards the screen of glass. But something stops you. Your angry squint is replaced with wide eyes.

Below you, you see the neighbor kid, talking to someone parked at a curb. You recognize that car. Your neighbor is cavorting with a known drug dealer. In broad daylight.

Even in your blinding rage, you know you can't do shit without evidence. And you're determined to get it.

You go downstairs and grab the roses. In an incident of pure irony, a lone thorn pierces you. Now there is blood dripping down the very hand you just spared from injury.

You can feel your heart beat, at a dangerous speed, through your palm as you wrap it. The wound is deep, and there are small red puddles collecting on your kitchen tile. As you dress the wound one-handedly, you glare out the window.

Finally, you hold the flowers again- this time, by the petals- and head out the door. You practically march to the curb to drop them on the ground. Maybe some rabbits will eat them or some shit.

You turn around, and you hear that noise again. His voice.

"Bad date?" You turn around, and his brown eyes are closer than you expected.

He's at your mailbox, seemingly to collect the roses at his feet. He isn't deterred by the anger in your eyes.

"No." You tell him, bluntly.

"Can I have-"

"Yes." You turn around again, prepared to walk through your front door and go a week without social interaction.

"I know about you," says the neighbor boy. You offer him silence, turning around to meet his eyes with a steely glare.

"I mean, it's just kinda weird to think I know a lot about you," he says, his smile goofy. "You don't know anything about me."

"No," you say bluntly, "I don't." This is a lie.

He cocks his head to the side. "You don't like me, do you?"

"Kid," you growl, "I don't even like myself."

You walk to your door and enter your house without glancing behind you. If you did, you suspect, you would still see the kid's eyes watching you.


	4. Clear (as) Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facades begin to crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a mess and full of filler, I'm sorry. 
> 
> We're starting to see a semblance of a plot here... 
> 
> Oh, and in the next chapter, there will be gay kissing.

Three sounds surround you. Shovels, weeping, and deafening silence.

It is a clear, mild day. You look up at the cloudless sky, then back to the earth, in which the knees of your slacks are covered.

THERESA GRAVES

This is the first time you've seen the slab of marble since the day they buried her. Your guilt is all-consuming.

You stare at her name- _your_ name- and reflect. A butterfly has the nerve to land nearby, and you decide today is not the day to apologize to her. Not that you believe she can hear you anyway.

An hour later, you're at home, three beers in, gnawing on a stale defrosted bagel. In front of you, the screen plays an infomercial.

  
You've neatly folded your black suit and placed it on the end of your couch. You eye your kitchen, contemplating giving it a stress-clean, but don't trust yourself to keep your delicate china in one piece. Your urge to break something is as strong as it is disturbing.

\---

Chief Sanders, visibly uncomfortable, squirms in his chair.

"Spit it out," you want to bark, but instead watch helplessly as the man holds vital information hostage.

Marty sighs, his kindly, wrinkled face avoiding eye contact before piercing you with it. His fingers slide a mugshot over to you. You examine the subject, a slight blonde man with a minor case of crazy eyes. You've never seen him before in your life.

"His name is Florian Keller," Sanders informs. "On death row, scheduled for the chair next year." Marty can sense your impatience. He exhales before continuing. "He wants a lesser sentence in exchange for information. He's not talking yet, but... he mentioned Theresa."

Your mind races. What could Theresa possibly have in common with this man? You stare at the photo again. Every pixel of his face seems to be mocking you.

  
\---

Now another face is mocking you. You've moved your pity party to the front porch, glaring through sips of your fifth beer.

The kid pulled up to the curb and sat in his car for minutes before leaving, two glossy hardback books under his arm. Figures he'd be in summer school. The kid just screams slacker.

But now he's looking at you. Probably judging you for drinking before 5. Or maybe he's hiding something. Either way, you're not having it.

  
You pick up the newspaper and angrily unfold it, reading crossword puzzles defiantly. When you peer up, the twerp is gone.

You momentarily forgot your mission the other night. But you remember now.

 _"I know about you."_ He told you. What the fuck did he mean by that? You told him you don't know anything about him, which is a bold-faced lie. You knew more than you needed to know about everyone on the block, and he was no exception.

Sad story, really. He spent most of his life in the foster system and seemed to have a knack for attracting pieces of shit. His first, and longest, stay was with a madwoman who tricked the system into thinking she was some sort of saint. In reality, she was a religious freak who beat her children mercilessly.

  
Not that there's any excuse for being a little shit.

You idly wonder if he's happy living in a shiny white suburban neighborhood, with parents who wear cable knit sweaters around their shoulders. Then you wonder why you wondered that at all. Then you reason it's better than thinking about Theresa.

You stare at his car, the reflection burning your retinas.

It's time to move the pity party again.

Just as you get up, you see his thin frame walking out his front door. If you were slightly more inebriated, you'd be convinced you summoned him. You sit back down.

  
He's holding a stack of envelopes, held together with a red rubber band. But he walks past his mailbox. He crosses the street. You gulp down some beer. He's walking towards you.

  
He shuffles over to you, walking all over your grass with blatant disregard. You stare him down as he approaches.

Finally, he steps up on your porch without permission and hands the stack to you. "Ma told me to give these to you." You take the stack. A bunch of untouched envelopes- from the looks of them, all ads- addressed to you. "They keep getting delivered to us for some reason." The kid looks at you as if he just saved your dog from drowning.

  
"Thanks." You didn't even attempt to come across as sincere. You look up from the pile, at his bratty face, which changes expressions.

His eyes look into yours, practically violating you. His tone is half pity, half amusement as he asks, "were you... _crying_?"

Fuck. You completely forgot. You hadn't looked in a mirror and had no idea of knowing how bloodshot your eyes were.

"I have allergies," you insist sharply. He looks unconvinced, and frankly a bit smug.

  
He changes the subject. "Is it true what people say about you?"

You take another swig of beer. "I have no idea what people say about me."

He stares at you, studying. "I read an article about you."

He is clearly baiting you into a line of questioning. You don't give a shit. "That's great, kid. They spell my name right?" He had a talent, the boy. He was able to press every one of your buttons at once. He opens his mouth to elaborate, but you cut him off. "Your parents are nice people. Don't make them bail you out of jail."

The kid's face was overcome with confusion. "Wh-"

"I know about your little friend. Turner. I know what he does." His face lost a bit of color, but he didn't flinch.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His tone was breezy, as if mocking. "Besides, there's no such thing as guilty by association."

"Not legally, no." You look up at him sternly, realizing a bit too late your post-crying face was probably not intimidating. The point he made was valid, and one you've had to re-learn many times in your line of work. "But where there's smoke..." Congratulations, that was the most cliche response you could have given.

The kid looked at you, somehow managing a steely nonchalance. "Anyway," he says dismissively, "enjoy your mail."

He smiles innocently, but the glint in his eye was undeniable.

You watch him walk away, and have the most sober thought you've had for hours.

_He's going to leave the house tonight._

_And you're going to follow him._


	5. The Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching and waiting.

It's 2 AM.

You could be asleep or on your couch. Instead, you are parked on a curb in a neighboring town, in a lower middle class suburb. You've been in the spot for hours.

In hindsight, this was not your brightest idea.

You stare at the house, waiting for any sign. The lights are still on. The boy is still there.

Other than a flickering street lamp, you're surrounded by pitch black. In irritation, you turned off your radio hours ago.

 _Just go home_ , you beg yourself for what must be the 20th time. But you won't, and you know it. You have your sights set on something and you are determined to see it through.

 

3 AM.

The lights are still on. You stare vaguely, waiting for a silhouette or a noise. Something. Anything. To be completely honest, you don't even know what you're looking for. You have no permit and you have no real suspicions, but something about that kid's condescending face won't leave your mind. You never believed in gut feelings, but maybe this is what they feel like.

An unseen car speeds by on the main road, and you are grateful for the confirmation you haven't gone deaf. Everything is dark and nothing is happening. Everything is black.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

You find yourself slowly waking to an incessant sound. You have no recollection of when you fell asleep.

You open one eye and see a woman, her hair in rollers, peering into your slightly open window.

"What are you doing parked outside my house?" She demands shrilly. "I'm calling the police!" She rambles on for another minute or so, and you can't even pretend to listen. You close your eyes again, blindly find the badge buried in your cup holder and slam it against the window.

You assumed this would please her enough to leave, but you were wrong. You still feel her shadow hovering over you. You sigh and open your eyes, looking directly at her matronly face.

"Lady, I am the police." You grumble.

She looks mortified, but not as mortified as you would be had you known what your hair looked like. She mumbles an apology. Her eyes, now relaxed, survey your face and she clearly like what she sees.

Ten minutes later and you're drinking coffee from a pink "#1 Aunt" mug.

Your plan was to leave before sunrise, because you are a moron who chose not to spring for tinted windows. Even though you had the good sense to park several houses away, you know you're risking exposure every second you sit in your car.

You put your keys in the ignition and look at the time. 7:12 AM. Your windshield is covered in dew and water from a rogue sprinkler. As you blankly watch your windshield wiper, the sun blinds you. You open up the glove box and retrieve a long-forgotten-about pair of sunglasses while your eyes adjust.

With a stray yawn, you survey the neighborhood. The kid's car is still in the driveway. You are relieved at this as you stare at the house, hoping the delinquents may emerge from it any second.

You know who lived there. A good-for-nothing kid with a steady drug-dealing gig, and, seemingly, a never-ending streak of luck when it came to brushes with the law. Last name Turner, first name was Alex... Eric...

"Alec!" The voice was unmistakable. It belonged the neighbor boy.

You jump.

Your sorry ass fell asleep again, and now you're right in the cross hairs of a potential scandal. Lousy Bergen County Cop Jailed for Stalking Neighbor. You can see the headline now, stained by a coffee mug on a formica diner table.

You crouch down, making your dumb face less visible.

"Alec!" The kid's voice was pleading. He trailed behind the slightly taller blonde boy as he walked towards the end of the driveway. "Alec, pl-"

Turner whips around, speaking inaudibly from your distance. From their body language, it is clear the two of them are fighting. Alec walks up to where the brat stands, inches away from his face.

They speak tensely. About what? There was no telling. They stand mere centimeters away from each other, their voices a collective. Arms flinging, brows burrowed, the whole nine yards. This goes on for several minutes before the two of them collapse into an impassioned kiss.

Your back straightens as you watch the two of them, making out in broad daylight, for all the world to see. The neighbor boy's body language is different now. He seems to melt against Turner. When Alec breaks the kiss, the boy follows him like a pleading puppy.

You feel a knot in your stomach. Everything about this was unsettling. It wasn't the boy-on-boy thing. You lived in New York City for most of your life, for fuck's sake, even saw the occasional off-Broadway play. No, this was something else entirely.

You stare as the boy- still in pajama pants- climbs into his silver car. Turner follows. You gulp and wonder what the hell is wrong with you. You close your eyes, sinking into the passenger seat you're psuedo-straddling, and let a voice in your head take over. _This is a distraction._

Of course it is. But to admit such a thing would require acknowledging the very thing you're distracting yourself from. The very reason you have free time to follow budding kingpins in the first place.

You open your window, placing the mug in Barbara's mailbox. You told her you were on official business. She told you she could keep a secret. Hopefully you weren't _both_ lying.

When you drive off, you take a longer route than necessary. Self-sabotage. This whole time, there was one thing you were begging yourself to do. It was on your mind every waking moment, but you won't let yourself. Self-preservation. You pass by a generic donut shop and pick up your breakfast, parking in the lot to collect yourself in the form of banging your head against your dashboard in frustration.

When you get home, the silver car is already parked. As you stare at it, mentally replaying the past eight hours and truly taking in your own idiocy, you decide to finally do it.

You walk in the house, turn on your computer, and Google "Florian Keller."


	6. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has a reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short because the next one is going to be quite the ride. I'll post it soon- I'm excited to write it. :)

_You followed him here. You actually followed him here. Un-fucking-believable._

It is a damp Wednesday night, you have leftovers in the fridge and an early shift tomorrow, and yet here you are. Standing against a brick wall, having your first cigarette in months, while headache inducing lights and sound pour out from the unmanned door.

A girl- young, but not too young- walks up to you, shivering in her hoodie and skimpy dress combination. She hands you a $20 bill.

"Wh-"

"You're the bouncer, right?" She asks, removing her hood and hand-combing her blonde hair.

You blink. "Yeah. Yeah. Go on." You shoo her away, puffing at the cigarette. As she walks forward, you pause. She feels her eyes on you, as pretty young girls are trained to do, and looks over her shoulder. "Be safe," you say, your tone more of an order than the casual goodbye you intend.

She walks off, heels click-clacking into the horde, leaving you in an empty alleyway with guilt and a $20 bill.

 _Why the fuck did she think you were a bouncer?_ You wonder, perplexed. You're under six feet, and not nearly in the shape you used to be. Then you remember, for the fifth time that night- you're ancient. Comparatively speaking, at least. You could have fathered several of the kids in that club, were you sexually active in your teens. In fact, you could have sworn one drunk guy called you 'daddy' as you walked past him.

With a stomp of your sneaker, you put out your cigarette and abandon your mission.

  
\---

_The man was a ghost._

You stood in front of your computer, eyes crusty and sore from last night's stakeout disaster, reading the two pages of results for "Florian Keller."

Nothing of note. A few dead ends, a handful of foreign Facebook pages. Nothing.

The fucker had his page scrubbed. Or someone did. It figured. No criminal had the decency to own up to their shit these days.

You gnaw at a blueberry bagel. You don't even like blueberries. The poor girl behind the counter looked like she was expecting a robbery when you walked in the donut shop, eyes lined with red, looking like you just saw a ghost- or maybe were one. You stared at her, the pastries, and back without a damn word for what seemed like minutes on end before impulsively buying three dozen assortments.

"Surprise me." Pause. "The boys get hungry," you said, flashing your badge like a fucking idiot, as if your being a cop somehow explained your complete lack of social grace. You then order what you actually walked in to get- a damn sausage and egg bagel with coffee. _It is truly incredible how you manage to screw up even the most mundane of tasks_ , you think as you pay for the ridiculous order you made out of sheer panic.

You had no intention of sharing the thirty-fucking-six baked goods, but you also had no use for a bunch of rotting bear claws. Maybe you'll bring them into the precinct office and convince yourself you had altruistic intentions all along.

You close the window, open up a new tab, and realize there isn't a damn thing you want to look at.

Two hours later, you walk into the office, a box of baked goods in hand. Martha, whose eyes blatantly survey your sweatpants, takes the box as she handles a phone call. You walk past her and into the gym, which is thankfully empty.

"Graves!"

Fuck, you lost count. You look over the bench and see Reese, a young guy with all the cockiness of a potential police chief.

"Hey Reese," you say with a struggling voice as you start over. Reese takes off his shirt and gets on the mat, dropping to do flawless push ups. Of course.

"Aren't you on paid suspension or something?" He asks, a vein in his bicep threatening to pop.

"Paid vacation," you grumble. "Today's the last day."

"That's rough," said Reese, his Adonis body doing push ups you could only dream of doing. "You gotta come in on a Sunday."

It takes you a few seconds to process this. Had you really lost track of the days of the week so easily? "Yeah," you reply blandly.

As men do, you ignore each other for the rest of the time you share the room.

When you get home, that _fucking_ kid is smoking outside, smoking a cigarette. You look at him in your rear view mirror and let out a loud groan. It takes minutes of mental motivation to move your sore, sorry body out of the car. When you do, he too surveys your sweat pants with an alarming intensity, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge you. The little shit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering why people keep looking at Charles's sweatpants, please refer to this scholarly article: http://ewan-mcgregor.tumblr.com/post/157340916266/total-recall-2012


	7. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misery loves company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those asking why everyone stared at Charles's sweatpants last chapter, this may help:  
> ewan-mcgregor.tumblr.com/post/157340916266/total-recall-2012
> 
> Sex scene next chapter. It was going to be at the end of this chapter, but... it isn't. So. Yeah.

_You're too old to be here._

It's the fourth time in an hour you've had this exact thought. It isn't going away, but neither are you. Not yet.

  
You stand at the balcony, overlooking the dancing crowd.

_Why the hell did you come here?_

  
Kids below you are having fun, making connections, probably doing drugs. Behind you, you hear a bartender give some girl directions to the bathroom, screaming over the music.

 _You don't belong here._

You look at your watch. It's still Wednesday, and you're still a moron.

\---

"January 9th, 2015." 

The woman speaks into her tape recorder before setting it down on the coffee table and picking up her yellow legal pad. She retrieves the pen attached to it and uncaps it with her teeth.

You're already looking at the clock.

  
She settles in her over-sized chair and you shift, getting ready for the inevitable.

  
"In these past months, Charles," her voice is stern and gentle all at once, "have you seen any progress?"

You take a sip of water from the plastic Dixie cup and nod.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

She looks skeptical. "Are you just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"

 _Yes._ "No."

  
She sighs and begins to speak. Nothing you haven't heard already. Your eye fixates on the water cooler, watching bubbles form and float away. The window is covered with cheap gauzy curtains. Judging from the lighting, the snow is about to get worse. _Great._

You lick your lips. Your mouth is dry and your eyes feel heavy. 

"Charles." You snap back to reality. She's looking at you like a mother about to ask if her kid's done her homework, while fully aware he hasn't.

She writes something. You open your mouth, which is always a mistake. "I bought a house."

She looks up at you, eyebrows raised in shock. "A house?" More scribbling, faster this time.

"In a nearby neighborhood. The Gardens."

"That's a pretty development," she says, not looking up from her moving pen. Her voice is more pleasant now. "I used to know someone there."

You nod. Silence. Suffocating silence. 

"Do you think a new home will help you?" She reaches for her iced tea and sips from it, looking at you with brows still raised. "Is your current home holding you back?"

  
You stare, feeling a knot in your stomach. Fuck. The tears are coming again and you feel like a moron. You look away, at the diploma on the wall.

  
Barbara Velasquez, Princeton University. You can't make out the fine print from the couch. You look at the cheap carpeting instead. Seconds go by, her question floating between the two of you. You're not a total moron. You know she's judging you. Finally, you open your mouth. "It still smells like her." You croak. "Every corner."

Silence. You listen to the second hand on the clock above you. Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack. She writes some more.

"I'll be blunt," says Dr. Velasquez. "I'm worried, Charles."

"Why?" You stare at the carpet again, disgusted anyone would buy it, let alone install it in a room for crazy people.

"It seems impulsive. You never mentioned this before."

"I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"...but you never mentioned it. Why?" You look at her, eyes glazed and mind tired. You managed to avoid tears so far, but it was a close call.

"I knew you'd disapprove."

Dr. Velasquez furrows her brow. "I'm not here to judge you, Charles. I'm here to-"

"-to _help_ me, I know." You grumble, smelling plastic coating as you take another gulp.

"This is something you've struggled with before, Charles. Impulsivity."  
  
"Look," you snap. "It's not like I can't afford it, okay? Once the settlement money comes in..."

"It's not your money I'm worried about, Charles. It's _you_." 

Defeated, you lean back into the sofa cushions. 

\---

1:28 PM. 

You're parked behind a corner, waiting for some shit to happen. At least on paper.

You frankly don't give a shit if some housewife is speeding on the way to her PTA bake sale or if a douche speeds up at a yellow light.

It's been one day since you returned from leave, and you can't decide which made you more miserable: the mundane or the absence of it.

You see a silver minivan going twice the speed limit and realize you don't care. Not about the car, and not in general. Every day, the sun rises and sets, babies are born, people are starving, and you don't give a shit. 

You stare out into the distance, letting every noise fade into the background of your apathy.

Slowly, you fade back into consciousness and only one thing comes to mind. _You don't belong here._

\---

They forgot the extra sauce.

You wanted one thing all day. You wanted your goddamn chicken wings and a good movie. Nothing goes the way it should. You're sitting on the couch, watching a shitty Will Ferrell movie with under-sauced wings.

As you suck buffalo sauce remnants off a slice of celery, the taste brings back a memory. Half off Bloody Mary nights at Lenny's, the long-gone college bar you used to frequent. The drinks were terrible, but the boys always picked up the tab if you beat them in pool. Of course, you rarely did. 

You feel yourself smile.

You look out the window. It's dark, but in your mind's eye you can see your neighborhood- the very picture of suburbia. The well-manicured lawns, picket fences, chalk hearts etched on the driveways. The image seemed so clinical. So sanitized. You longed to be at Lenny's, sitting in a duct-taped faux-leather booth, watching fluorescent lights flicker.

For some reason, the nostalgia ignites motivation in you. You're going out.

After a brief chicken wing intermission, you set your sights on your goal. You get in the shower, put some effort into your hair and throw on a presentable outfit before heading out the door.

 


	8. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie socializes. It goes better and worse than he hoped.

You're at a bar, voluntarily making eye contact for once. The place smells of vodka and chicken wings, though the latter may just be your breath.

  
You sit on your stool, surveying the crowd. It's a Monday, eightish at night- hardly prime time for... alright, you never caught the name of this bar. You drove past it hundreds of times, but, like lyrics without music, it never made its way to the front of your useless brain.

  
You're one of few in the place. There is a group of barely alcohol-legal kids in a booth, Snapchatting their bowl of peanuts or whatever the fuck. There are a handful of scattered men still in their work clothes, one of whom you know by sight. He gives a familiar but nervous smile as a woman who is not his wife obliviously talks. He goes back to his Not Wife as you quietly judge him. There are a few others among you, including some bikers, two girls drinking water and a guy who looked like he'd been there six hours already.

  
The bartender finally hands you your Long Island and you sip idly, facing away from the bar to stare at the neon 'DRINKS' sign. As you study the flickering green letters, you zone out for God knows how long.

  
"Hey."

The voice takes you out of your mini-trance. You look to your right and see a girl. You must look like the biggest moron on the planet as you squint at her face, bathed in magenta as your eyes adjust.

She's in her early 30s, you suppose. Old enough to talk to you, young enough to find someone better to talk to.

"Hi there," you respond, cursing yourself for sounding so dorky. She smiles. The girl must have walked in while you were mentally checked out. She's pretty. Blonde hair, kind eyes. You have no idea why she'd choose to speak to you, but at least it's keeping her away from the seedier patrons.  
You look at her, studying the gloss on her lips as it transfers to her straw. Being the prettiest girl in the room had its advantages, and getting a drink in a minute flat was evidently one of them.

She puts her glass down and gives you a courteous smile that makes you feel guilty. _She doesn't want to talk at all, Charles, she was just being polite._ You look off to the side at a biker. Judging by his expression as he meets your eye, you're nearly positive he can sniff officers out by habit.  
You look away, taking an olive from the garnish tray. Through the corner of your eyes you can see the blonde girl facing you. You look at her again.

"I'm Candace," she said simply, giving you a sweet smile. She extends her hand and you shake it as you awkwardly chew on the olive and try to figure out a way to suavely spit out the pit. You settle on a napkin and hope the way you spit is more John Wayne than Wayne Knight.

"Charles," you say. You look at her face, studying her gaze. Not even you, an idiot in a dry spell spanning over a year, could misinterpret her expression. She was no femme fatale, but her blue eyes, as sweet at they were, gave off a certain electricity as they looked into yours. She wanted you.

But girls don't always go for what they want- it's a scary world for girls in bars, and you are not about to count your eggs before they hatch. Truth be told, the very idea of having sex with someone so lovely- or anyone at all- was daunting... and, yet, it's been a tough month.

She tells you she's a schoolteacher. You know better than to tell the truth in front of unruly drunks and tell her you're a mechanic. You figure it's a safe choice in lies- not boring enough to make your stock plummet but not intriguing enough that she'll ask questions.

You talk to her for the better part of an hour, neither of you getting a second drink. As you chat, you try not to be presumptuous, but at the same time... you slowly wrap your brain around the idea. She seems harmless. She won't laugh if you finish in the time it took her to get that drink. You think of million reasons to reject an offer that hadn't yet come, but you silence them.

Sure enough, the two of you end up on your couch. The sensation of her lips kissing yours is almost too much to bear, her soft fingertips exploring your face. You forgot what it felt like, to have a kind face peer into yours from inch away. Sure, the girl didn't know you from Adam, but in that moment she lavished you in something that felt like sympathy. Not the distant kind, like all the people at Theresa's funeral who wouldn't meet your eye. Her presence was warm. You deepen the kiss, running your hand down her back, itchy sundress fabric be damned.

Her kisses get more aggressive, which puts you off a bit. She straddles you and kisses your earlobe.

"Can I call you Charlie?" Her voice was playful but sultry, an intimate whisper.

 _Absolutely not,_ you think, and shake your head. She giggles and kisses down your neck. You gaze up at the ceiling, jumping at the sensation of her fingertips up your shirt.

"You can touch me, you know," she said playfully in your ear, and you eye the cleavage pressed against your chest. She notices and laughs gently. "You're shy."

You take offense, but for the moment you'd rather she think you're shy than just out of practice. Instead of dipping your toe in the water, you went right off the diving board and were beginning to doubt the decision. She gyrates against you, hand against your bare chest, and you groan. Good idea or not, it certainly  _felt_ good. You reach out, cupping her breast and she's audibly relieved you decided to join the game.

She removes the dress and tosses it on the floor, much to your chagrin, but there they are. The first pair of breasts you've seen in the flesh for over a year. You let out an appreciative sound and tentatively touch them, which amuses her. She kisses you some more and you can feel your heart race faster than you'd prefer. You're short of breath, body overwhelmed, and once you re-focus, you find yourself half naked, cock out. She's kissing you still, fumbling to awkwardly put your wallet condom on you. As she works, you find yourself distracted by a freckle on her shoulder, then by a scratch on your door. You try to collect yourself as she slides her panties off, a hand gently touching her hip. With her every touch, this all felt more wrong. Not wrong as in sinful- though it certainly felt delicious enough- but just... wrong. You gaze up at the ceiling and gasp as you feel her against you. You could cry. It felt wonderful. You, on the other hand, did not.

You felt dizzy and nauseous. The photo of Theresa on the shelf didn't help. She didn't notice as your face went clammy. Fuck, it felt good. It felt so good and yet you weren't there, mentally. Mentally, half of you is in escape mode. The other half calls that first half a pussy.

You're close. To sobbing, to screaming, to climaxing, it didn't matter. You're a man on several edges.

_Do it._

The voice in your head is begging you to fuck the beautiful naked girl doing 90% of the work. Your gut disagrees, and you feel a knot in your stomach.

You gingerly lie her down, taking the top. You're more comfortable with the position and a part of the discomfort fades. She doesn't protest and you thrust into her, eyes vaguely positioned on the wall facing you. Your thrusts are faster than you intended, which she likes. You don't look at her, but her sounds are telling, if genuine.

You go faster and look down at her. Her blonde hair is fanned out and her eyes gaze up at you as she bites her lip. Your throat, still constricted, eases a bit at the sight. She's harmless- angelic, really. In fact, her face was no bathed with light.

Headlights.

You look out the window and, sure enough, there was a car, illuminated by a street lamp. A silver car belonging to none other than your bratty neighbor boy. Your thrusts get faster now as you stare at the window. You feel your face heating up, your speed nearly doubling. The kid leaves his car and looks over his shoulder, talking to an unseen figure who emerges from the other side. You tilt your head, but lament the kid blocking your view. Finally, they join on the sidewalk. You let out a feral grunt at the sight of a blonde mop of hair. It's Alec Turner. _Of course_ it's Alec Turner.

You squint, watching.

"You're hurting me," the girl says, strained, from underneath you. "Could you go slower?"

You nod. "Yeah... yeah, sorry," you say gruffly as you slow down.

They're talking, shit-eating grins on both of their faces. Alec touches his wrist and leans in. You can't read his expression anymore, but the boy looks at him, conspiratorial.

Alec pulls him closer with and trails the boy's face with his disgusting, drug-dealing hands. They lock eyes and Alec's hands travel down to the boy's torso, rubbing his chest through his tee. The boy steps closer.

They kiss. Once, twice, ten times.

"Ow!" The girl whimpers. "Please, Charlie-"

She's ruining your focus. You look at her, slightly manic, and place a finger to your lips. _"Ssssssh!"_

She whimpers and you stare at the window. They're against the car, savagely making out with blatant disregard for the neighbors. You can't believe their gall- your neighbor, flaunting his connection to a filthy degenerate, and the filthy degenerate no doubt corrupting this boy.

Disgusting.

"Ow-"

"Sssshhh."

You slow down to the best of your ability, but you're in the zone.

Alec opens the car door and violently tosses the boy into it, crawling in after him. They were going to fuck in the back seat, like some 1950s teenage cliche. Absolutely shameful.

"Slower!"

You groan, pulling out of her entirely, and look at her face. The girl looked scared-of what, you didn't know.

You glanced back up through the window. You couldn't see anything.

She gets your full attention now. You touch her face, whispering apologies and fuck her again, gentler this time.

You look out the window and watch the light inside the car fade.

You last a few more seconds before finishing with a cry. As you collect yourself, the girl crawls out from under you, sliding her panties on.

"What are you-" the girl hadn't finished yet.

She looks at you, eyes wide and nervous. "I... I just remembered I need to go." You choose to believe her.

You toss the condom in the trash and walk up to her, handing her the dress from your floor. You survey her face again, more shaken than sweet.

"Candace," you say gently, but she shakes her head, putting on her dress.

"I'm fine."

You sigh and give her money for whatever app kids use instead of cabs these days. "Please take this," you say quietly, an apology in your voice.

She looks at you, now seething. "I'm not a hooker!"

"No, I-" the girl stormed to your door.

"Cand-"

She turns around, eyes shining with fresh tears as she shakes her head again. "I thought you were a good guy," she says weakly.

"I _am_ a good guy!" You insist.

The door slams in your face. You don't follow her.

"I _am_ a good guy," you whisper to yourself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only proofread the first 60% or so. Let me know if there are glaring errors!
> 
> Next chapter: LOTS of Credence! Interacting with Charles! And not fighting!


	9. Independence Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An origin story.

**Friday, July 4, 2014.**

  
Everyone on Beverly Drive is assembled in one backyard, most of them gathered around a grill or scooping potato salad on paper plates.

"Credence," says a voice behind you. "You should go play with them." Your foster father puts his hand on your shoulder from behind before sitting at your side, heaping plate of food in hand. You look to the side, where he is glancing, at your siblings tossing a beach ball around.

"No thanks," you say, and glance back at your plate. Baked beans, ruffle chips, a severely burned corn muffin and a hot dog your well-meaning but idiotic foster mother cut as if you were a toddler.

Your dad sighs and pats your back a few more times before taking a bite of his picture-perfect burger. Kids behind you laugh as the sprinklers come on, which your horrified hosts scramble to remedy. You look at the sprinkler water. A rainbow appears, and you smile to yourself. Within seconds, the sprinkler turns off and the rainbow fades.

You stab at the muffin with your plastic fork. It crumbles almost immediately and falls into the heap of beans, which you have no interest in.

The energy alters slightly as people look up from their phones and feasts to greet someone unseen. Whoever it is has a half dozen neighbors speaking to them in their friendliest tone. Your foster father joins them and you take this opportunity to snatch a few of his tater tots.

There is nobody your age. Everyone's children are either pre-pubescent or absent. Several women told you of their college aged sons- all off at different parties, presumably having a much better time than you- and volunteered their email addresses to you. Were it not for the veiled pity in their eyes, you might have been grateful.

The crowd around your mysterious neighbor slowly disperses, and you finally see him. A very tired-looking, exceptionally handsome man you've never laid eyes on in your life.

You follow him with your gaze as he shuffles toward the grill. His body language practically screams _'I'm only here for the food,'_ which you admire.

You watch him intently. His moves are timid, even cautious. He was trying not to be seen and failing miserably at it. Several neighbors walk up to him, and he navigates the conversations awkwardly, nervously straightening the hem his grey V-neck sweater as his eyes dart to the dwindling supply of hot burgers. This failed pursuit amuses you as you idly poke holes through the plastic tablecloth.

A few minutes pass. You are still watching the poor man summon all the politeness he has to chat with various neighbors, mostly women, who sought his attention. He has a plate of food now, and you imagine he is desperate to devour its contents without offending anybody. You look down at your lap and find the tablecloth is more hole than material at this point.

A few more minutes pass. You're still watching this gorgeous wreck of a man, now speaking with your foster dad, who leads him towards your table. You gulp down some root beer, realizing the inevitable.

The man sits across from you and you quietly study his weary, stunning face as it forms a polite smile you don't quite buy.

"This is my son, Credence," says your foster father. "Credence, this is Charles, our newest neighbor."

Charles reaches out his hand and you shake it, wondering if your fingers smell like plastic coating. The two of you lock brown eyes, and there seems to be an unspoken understanding- neither of you want to be here.

Your father, on the other hand, does not receive this telepathic message- or, at least, elects to ignore it. He starts rambling, listing off superficial traits the two of you have. Charles is a cop from New York. You're about to turn 18. Yadda yadda. You nod blankly as you imagine the man before you, with his ironed Oxford shirt and neatly parted hair, running around a dark metropolis in a sweaty uniform, brandishing a gun. It's a good image, to say the least.

Your sister skins her knee while playing jump rope, and your foster father excuses himself to tend to her. For the moment, it is just the two of you at the picnic table and a particularly vivid sunset.

"So," he breaks the silence, "how's school?" He looks at you from under his impressive brows, gaze kind.

A kid. This man thinks you're a kid. You look down at your plate see it through his eyes. Cut up hot dog, mashed-up food pushed to the side, and a gigantic pile of potato chips. This wasn't the plate of a man he could legally fuck in a matter of months. It looked like it belonged to a preschooler. _Damn._

"It's good," you say simply. "Though... it's the summer right now." Both of you laugh awkwardly. Your hostess, phone wedged between her chin and shoulder, comes over briefly to light the mosquito-repelling candle between you. Charles gives her a polite smile and a nod as she apologetically gestures to the phone with a shrug. He gives her a charming face that says _'don't worry about it,_ ' and she walks off to light the rest of the candles.

You eye him, wondering if you just witnessed his brand of flirting. "Have you ever arrested anyone really dangerous?"

He looks momentarily caught off guard and puts down the burger he was about to finally bite into. "All criminals are dangerous," he answered simply.

"Yeah," you reply automatically, "but some more than others."

He nods at that, finally sinking his teeth into his dinner, and he wipes some sauce off his lips. When he looks at you again, he seems apologetic. "I'm sorry... what is your name again?" Any illusions you had of this being a date just shattered.

"Credence," you say quietly. You openly despise the name. When the James family took you in, you had a fresh start. You started a new high school and called yourself C.J, hoping it would catch on. It never did. You got teased every now and then for having a strange name, but at least it distracts bullies from the fact you are gayer than the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.

"Credence," the man repeats, as if trying to commit to memory. He smiles, looking more exhausted than before. "Being an officer isn't as sexy as TV would leave you to believe." He said this in a way that suggested he tells it to people often.

 _'When you look like that, sanitation work would be sexy,'_ you think, but merely nod. He's checking his watch. The sun is down now, a few fairy lights glowing in the trees above. You eat, glancing at the man who clearly wasn't impressed by you.

Within a matter of two minutes, three things happen. Your foster father returns with a screeching Modesty and your foster mother, who informs you it is time to leave. Charles introduces himself to her as she removes her apron and hands you tin foil for your leftovers. Then the three of them leave to collect tupperware, leaving you alone with Charles.

You both stand and you are pleasantly surprised to learn you are slightly taller than him. You look at his face one last time. There was no denying you were taken with him. He shakes your hand again.

"It's nice to meet you, Credence," he smiled. "Good luck in school."

"Welcome to the neighborhood," you say, "I'll be seeing you."

Just as quickly as it started, it was over.

When you get home, you heat up your leftovers and sit at the table. You squint and watch the fairy lights from your window.

You wake up the next morning with an erection and several mosquito bites.

 


	10. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more day.

_Why don't you just retire?_

This is your first thought every time your alarm goes off and you are forced to return to consciousness.

Several people asked you the exact question- usually with their eyes, rather than their mouths.

Every time, you ask yourself the same question as you sit up. Then you look around at your room, largely undecorated save for a few wedding photos. The walls were unpainted. Almost everything was exactly the way it was when you moved in. _This is why._

The emptiness. The complete lack of meaning. Not even your bedroom bothered to pretend you were a complete person.

Truth be told, as miserable as you were with a job, you'd be more miserable without one. Sure, you had money now- courtesy of your wife's death- but no hobbies. Work at least gave you the _illusion_ you have a reason to get up in the morning.

Today is just another one of those mornings. Tuesday. Cloudy. You make yourself some oatmeal. You'll clock in, you'll clock out. You'll be back on your couch in time for dinner- a truly heinous Lean Cuisine pasta three days past its expiration date- and Wheel of Fortune.

When you get to work, there are kids everywhere. With a groan, you remember the annual fundraiser. The K-9 unit has a booth outside, and parents everywhere are scrambling to use their camera phones as their brats pose with German Shepards. You get out of the car and a few mothers point you out to their kids. Maybe they're spouting some bullshit about how brave you are, or maybe they see right through you. "Some cops are good, but not that one," they're probably saying.

When you get to the break room, you see two things at once- a lone banana nut muffin with your name figuratively written all over it, and the back of a man you truly do not have the patience for. You see him every once in a while, and you are truly grateful you don't often cross paths. He trains the K-9 dogs as puppies, probably because no human takes him seriously. He's good with kids, being an over sized one himself, so he'd be here all day. He's just standing there, back to you, eating a donut and staring at absolutely nothing like a goddamn idiot.

Just when you think you're safe to back out, he turns around and smiles brightly.

"Oh! Hello, Charles."

Ugh, you hate him.

"Hello," you say.

"Lovely day out," he says, British accent fully obnoxious.

_No. No, it isn't._

"Sure."

He looks at you some more. "Have you had time to visit the lemonade booth? All the money is going to charity."

"I just got here," you grumble.

He maintains his bright smile. "Well, if you have time, I'm sure the children would love to see you."

Fuck, he's invested this conversation. You can't even remember the guy's name. Nate Salamander or some shit.

"I'll see what I can do."

He puts down the chocolate donut with a hint of disapproval. The English fuck probably thinks it's too sweet.

Then, the guy does something truly unforgivable. He takes the muffin.

He keeps talking to you. You can barely contain your glare as you pretend listen to him. Between bites of _your_ muffin, he describes the latest puppy in his arsenal and why she is just too precious for words. If he pulls out his wallet and starts showing you pictures, you're going to scream.

You look at the clock.

This guy just keeps talking. _Don't they have dogs in England?_

You grab some coffee and watch him carry on this one-sided conversation before making up an excuse to leave.

"We should meet up some time," he says, to which you stare. He digs in his likely flea-infested pocket and pulls out his card.

_Noah Solomon, K-9 Training & Behavioral Therapy._

You mumble yet another excuse and leave.

The rest of the day is slightly less infuriating. Routine, really.

Tomorrow, you would not be so fortunate.

Hours pass. You have your disgusting noodles. You watch your game show.

After a few dinner beers, you find yourself angrily pacing your kitchen, a fist pounding against your dinner table.

Voice mail. He let it go to voicemail again. This is the tenth time you've called, and every time you get the goddamn voicemail.

The first nine times, you hung up. This time, you've had enough.

Five minutes later, you're on your couch, grabbing at your hair. You deeply regret leaving that voicemail.


	11. The Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short-lived victory.

It is 1:51 PM. You're driving a cop car, and Alec Turner is in the back.

It's been several minutes, and neither of you said a word. You peer through the mirror at him. He's staring right back, a smugly apathetic look on his face.

"How do you like Beverly Drive?" he asks, oh-so-casually indicating he knows where you live.

You raise your brow. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all, officer," he says with faux-innocence.

This little shit. He looks back at you, completely unaffected by his predicament. From his expression, you'd think he was the one arresting you.

The expression doesn't change with his location. You pace in front of him as he sits in the metal chair, hands folded patiently.

"Is this your first interrogation?" He smiles, watching you like a hawk. "I promise I'll be gentle."

You look at him and snarl. "I just caught you loitering on a college campus. We both know why."

"A deep love for the American education system?"

"To deal drugs."

He smiled again, shrugging. "That doesn't sound like something I would do, officer."

You glare, slamming his record on the table. "Should I read from this, then?"

Alec looks at the folder with a fond smile. "I didn't realize it was that thick." He was testing your patience. Deliberately, of course, and it was working. This kid was your personal nightmare- a criminal whose convictions never stuck, and a tyrant who taunted you from your window. That was on thing you had one him. He didn't know that you've seen his smart mouth locking lips with your neighbor. "You look stressed, officer Graves."

You stand taller, straightening your belt and collar. You change your tune. "Look. I'd like to help you. You're young. You don't need to b-"

"No thanks."

You raise your brow. "What?"

"Whatever limited edition deal you're about to offer. No thanks." He leaned up against his chair, removing his leather jacket coolly. "You have nothing on me. Loitering around my alma mater, waxing nostalgic about my co-ed days? Hardly a federal crime."

He's getting under your skin. You adjust your collar again and take a sip of water. "Your files suggest-"

"-a lot of arrests. But no convictions."

"There is a first time for everything, Turner." You cross your arms, trying to look intimidating, but this kid was impossible to shake.

He laughs. "We both know you've got nothing." You've had it up to your neck with this kid. You turn around, walking closer to the door, so you can seethe within him noticing. Maybe he'll think it's a power move. "We both know I'll be back at my place tonight. Well, to take a shower, at least. Gotta wash the smell of bacon off me before I go out."

"I would cancel your plans, Turner," you say. You're trying to sound scary, but you're failing miserably. There is no way this kid takes you seriously as a cop.

"In that case, could you drive Credence to the club?"

You turn around, both confused and shocked. "What?"

He laughed again, hollow. "You don't need to act dumb. He told me you two had a little chat about me." He wrapped his arm around the back of the chair, increasingly casual as you tense up. "Kind of sweet."

You stammer, then curse yourself for it. Of course he wouldn't keep his mouth shut. You wonder what, exactly, he told Alec. Specifically, you wonder if he left out the little detail where you were crying less than an hour prior. "I was just warning him. Being around you will land him... exactly here."

He shook his head. "Credence loves bubble night. He's gonna be heartbroken when he finds out his handsome neighbor kept him from a night in the big city."

You tense up again. "I didn't do shit. You did." Fuck, you sound like a toddler, screaming _'but he started it!'_

"Well. Give him my blessings then. I'll sure miss him while I rot away in my cell," he snickered. "Maybe you could be his date to the club instead. I'm sure you'd fit right in"

You glare, at a loss for threats. "Who the fuck goes to a club on a Wednesday?"

Alec studies your face for a full minute, then his eyes light up. He looks as though he just solved a riddle as he wraps his second arm around the silver chair. With a knowing smile, he laughs lightly and states, "you're jealous."

Clearly the kid's run out of ideas. He's just throwing out jabs on the wall to see what sticks. You got to him. You're not sure when, or how, but somehow you managed.

You win some, you lose some. As he seemed to suspect, within hours his name is cleared.

The day gets progressively worse from there. A woman spits in your face, two men claim no one read them their rights, and Tanya left some foul-smelling ethnic food in the break room overnight.

Maybe you _were_ jealous. Jealous of kids who were able to go out on a week night because they didn't have anything to do, while you wasted your time away doing civil services for an ungrateful public.

You clock out at 5 PM. When you get home, you take a long shower, screaming through your teeth in frustration.

You park your wet, miserable ass on your couch and watch a rerun of a game show. Slowly, a calm washes over you, and you begin to gain a new perspective. Maybe you're just an over-dramatic little shit. Maybe things aren't as bad as they seem, after all.

This lasts approximately 4 minutes.

That is the time it takes for you to look away from your screen and onto another.

1 new voicemail.

You know exactly who it is, and you know exactly how angry that message will be.

Overcome with guilt, you pace around the room, head in your hands. A photo of Theresa is taunting you from the shelf. Fuck. You try to ignore it. You try to ignore the blinking light on your ancient answering machine.

Without a plan, you walk outside, get in your car and drive.

Before you know it, you're in the parking lot of a 7-11 with three large brown bags, mostly assorted alcohol from next door, cereal, and a brand spanking new box of cigarettes. You gnaw at the taquito you bought on a whim and drive home.

An hour later, you're three beers. You open your laptop and Google "bubble night NYC."

Club Candor.

No one takes you seriously. Not as a cop, not as a man, not as a person. You're going to change that tonight. You're going to prove yourself tonight.

 


	12. Wednesday

_You followed him here. You actually followed him here. Un-fucking-believable._

It is a damp Wednesday night, you have leftovers in the fridge and an early shift tomorrow, and yet... here you are. You're about to go to a club. On a Wednesday.

The car is parked safely in a garage, tucked away from the hoodlums and assholes crawling this street corner.

_You've absolutely lost it._

The kid and his disgusting paramour walked in fifteen minutes prior. They didn't notice you. Judging from the pounding music coming from the building, you estimate there are probably hundreds of delinquent kids in the room.

You over-estimated.

You're surprised to see girls- you'd assumed this was a boys only deal- but there they are. Girls or not, there isn't much of a crowd. It isn't ideal for hiding.

Within minutes, you spot them from the balcony. First Alec, then the neighbor kid. They're on opposite sides of the room, covered in suds. Both of them have men shouting in their ear over the music as they dance.

You watch Alec for minutes on end, sure to take note of any ziploc baggies or money exchanges. There are none. You start to question whether or not this lead was worth the $35 parking.

Everyone up here is looking at you, you're sure of it.

_You're too old to be here._

You have no jurisdiction here. You have no purpose here.

How stupid you were to drive all this way just for a reminder of your age. How fucking idiotic it was for you to chase some children to another state on a whim... and one that didn't even materialize into truth.

_Why are you here?_

_You don't belong here._

Below you, kids are having fun, enjoying their moment. The DJ is playing a horrid remix of a song from your own moment. Back when you, like them, could smile and hope the future would be kind to them.

You lean over the balcony, hoping the abysmal strobe lights covered your wrinkles. The future didn't end up kind to you. Or maybe it did, in hindsight, but at the time you were miserable. Hell, that's a constant. In the past, in the present, and probably in the future.

You look at the bar behind you. Sobriety is a choice- one you do not want to make tonight. You order a drink and brood against the wall as you drink it. After your second drink, you're nearly positive a drunk guy called you "daddy" as he walked by, but there's no real way of knowing.

A bachelorette party seated by you invites you over, probably fishing for a round of free drinks. You decline and suddenly remember that box of cigarettes in your back pocket.

It's been months since you smoked- and, even then, it was a casual habit. A few a year. You never felt yourself craving anything tangible, but tonight you were close.

You walk back to the balcony, the beginnings of a bad headache settling in your temples. You rub them, suddenly very aware of their graying hairs.

_You're too old to be here._

You look down at the crowd, now largely sud-free. Nearly instantly, you spot the boy. He's with a different man now. He looks older- not as old as you, but old enough to order a drink without getting carded. You watch as your neighbor grins, eyeing the man's body. They close in on each other. They dance with locked gazes for the remainder of the song. The man entangled his fingers into the boy's hair before moving in. They meet halfway, into a slow and passionate kiss. The man's hand stayed in the neighbor's hair, as if claiming him.

Your throat is dry, so you suck the remainder of your mojito from between melting ice cubes. Still watching the dance floor through the balcony bars, you kneel down and place your empty glass on the floor. You watch for another moment before a wave of sweat and nausea hits you.

You race through technicolor youths to the bathroom and find yourself in a blindingly white bathroom stall, sitting on the toilet fully clothed with your arms on each plastic wall, which feel as though they are closing in on you. The music somehow seemed louder in the bathroom.

You find yourself crouched down on the floor, short of breath. You're convinced this is food poisoning. After minutes of will-I-or-won't-I while staring at the water in the bowl, you decide you merely drank too much too quickly. It figures. Age takes a lot from you, why wouldn't it also make you a lightweight?

You squat down until the room stops spinning. It takes a few minutes, but you eventually walk out and stare in the mirror. Your reflection looks back as if to spite you.

_You're too old to be here._

When you collect yourself, you look at your watch and are horrified to learn you were only in the club for 68 minutes. A goddamn hour. It felt like you spent twice that in the stall alone. You were worn down. Tired.

An hour. You're tired after an hour.

You shake your head at yourself as you walk out into the noisy rainbow dystopia, once again leaning over the balcony. You watch the crowd, lit up, and feel a tug of nostalgia for something you never had.

The thought comes to you again, louder than ever. _You're too old to be here._

You try to dismiss it, but as you watch the crowd, searching for one of two familiar faces, another question plagues you.

_What are you doing here?_

You truly don't know.

After a cleansing cigarette break in a drizzling alley, you decide you're sober enough and walk to the garage.

You got nothing out of this experience except a $20 bill, which doesn't even cover your parking.

You drive home in silence. Landmark after landmark zoom by as you make your way home. There is still a shortness of breath. You still feel sick, and you don't know why. You've seen and heard grotesque things on the job without a blink of an eye, but something about tonight filled your gut with absolute terror... or something adjacent to it. The truth is, you have no idea what it is or why you're feeling it. You just know you want it to stop.

Stop.

You forgot to stop.

You run through a red light, but make it out unscratched.

Now you're feeling it again. Worse than minutes before. You can barely breathe. You force yourself to keep driving. You're so close to home.

So close to home.

Closer.

Home.

You park your car in front of your garage, but overestimate the distance. You crash into the garage door, leaving dents in the car and the garage door.

_Phenomenal._

You walk out, strip to your underwear, and head straight to bed. You imagine your body, heart pounding in your throat.

You're unharmed.

Physically, at least.


	13. Setting Sun

There is no getting out of this.

  
You're on your couch, having just finished a long shift. It's dinner time now, but you spoiled your appetite with worry... and a "family size" bag of Combos. It's still light out. A sunny, quiet day- save for the loud  _pat-pats_ of a neighbor kid's basketball near by. It's not raining, you're not busy... there is no excuse. Not even you can manage to talk yourself out of this one.

You stare at the voice mail icon on your phone with dread.

_One missed call._

With a groan, you settle into your couch, ignoring the icon. You decide to skip the middle man and call. The drone of the dial tone lulls you into a false security before he picks up.

"That was some voice mail you left me, Graves."

 _Fuck._ You should have had a drink or three before doing this.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I ju-"

"I understand." The voice on the other end was stern, but warmer than expected. "You're right. We've been leaving you in the dark." A sigh. "Listen. We shouldn't be talking about this. Not yet. We don't know what we're dealing with here, and you're not NYPD anymore-"

 _And who's fault is that?_ You think to yourself, bitterly.

"-but you can come in this week. I..." Another sigh. "I don't have the details for you yet, but I will see what I can arrange. How..." A long pause, and then a change of tone. "How are you doing, Charles?" It was a loaded question, and not a casual one, but you dismiss it with some unconvincing small talk.

The man knew better than to press you for details- or maybe he just didn't care enough.

Your heart pounds as the call goes on for another half hour, seemingly just to punish you. You listen blandly. You answer his questions. With false excitement in your voice, you agree to vague dinner plans you both know will never become reality.

Finally, you're in the clear, the conversation winding down. You can see the finish line.

"You'll hear from me soon, Charles."

"Yes, sir."

"Until then... take care of yourself, alright?"

"You too."

"No, I m-" Another long pause. "Good night, Charles."

"Good night, Mr. Sanders."

You hang up, thanking your lucky stars Marty seemed to soften over the years.

That damn basketball was still bouncing, but for some reason you decide to sit outside and have a beer. You pass the patio and sit right on your curb, your ass in the grass like a fucking moron. You throw a few glares at your neighbor's son, whose only crime was being young, as he shot hoops on his driveway.

You had a lot of things to think about, and you'd rather not think about any of them. With Marty's compliance came a mixed bag of emotions. Some questions are better off as rhetorical. It is one thing to have an endless, mind-numbing list of possibilities to ponder- but another to have a signle mind-numbing truth.

So now you're staring at the sky as it begins to change colors, your ear buds in but no music playing. You stare at the sun until your eyes burn, then look at the screen in your palm, wondering if there is a single song ever recorded you actually want to listen to.

"What happened here?"

Startled, you look away from your phone and up at the impressive jaw of the James kid. Both you and the sun glare, making your eyes narrow. It takes you a second to remember he asked you a question, and you follow his eye level to your dented garage door.

You had forgotten other people could see how marvelously you fucked up. "I lost control," you said simply, a hint of shame in your voice.

The boy looked down at you, and for a split second you wonder if that smug look meant he read your mind and knew you saw him kissing that Abercrombie model the night before. He looks away, pulling a cigarette out of his back pocket, then sits at your side, looking out into the street.

Your heart stops. What on Earth could this kid want from you? Why did he want your company? What was he about to taunt you with? Luckily or not, he cuts to the chase.

"I hear you met with Alec." He said casually, with a note of amusement. The boy stared out into the street, then at his cigarette, which remained unlit.

"I meet a lot of punks in my profession," you say, trying to sound aloof but mostly sounding like an idiot. _Who the fuck says "punks" without irony? You sound ancient._ He looks at you, eyes raking over your uniform, which you were too idiotic to change out of.

You try to gauge what it is he's thinking, looking over to him in silence. His eyes are elsewhere now. You look at the pebbles on the street, then at your beer bottle. He's concentrating on something else entirely now, and you examine his face, waiting for him to make his intentions clear.

He doesn't look at you, toying with the lighter on his lap before speaking. "Sucks about your car."

That was it? What cryptic bullshit was he trying to pull? This boy didn't have an altruistic bone in his body, and you two were hardly chummy. There was no way in hell he'd volunteer his company just to give you vehicular condolences. You say nothing, looking at his house and wondering why the fuck he wasn't in it.

"I saw you drive in it this morning," he continued, squinting into the distance.

"Listen," you say, straightening your posture, looking over to him. He does not look back. "I don't know what you want from me. As far as I know, he got off without so much as a warning." You take a swig of your beer. "If you're here to lecture me about the finer points of law enforcement, I'm afraid you're out of your depth. Either way, he got off. You don't need to come here to defend your boyfriend."

He clicked the lighter and laughed lightly, looking down. "Boyfriend?" He replied with amusement. He paused to take a long drag of his cigarette. "He's not my boyfriend." This time his voice had another layer to his amusement. A secondary emotion you can't quite place. Something bitter.

"No?" You were too distracted trying to figure this kid out to give him a substantial response.

"Why?" The boy looked at you, blowing smoke at your side, his brown eyes lit with hope. "Did he call me that?"

"No," you respond flatly. He stares. You realize there is absolutely no reason, to this boy's knowledge, for you to imply the two of them were involved. He was blissfully unaware you caught them swapping spit, and you'd rather not cast suspicion on yourself. "He just made it sound like you were together." You take another swig of your beer, confident this response reached its desired level of vaguely informative.

The James kid looked at you, eyes still wide, but then looked away with a shrug. "I mean, yeah, but we're not... he's not my _boyfriend._ "

"None of my business, kid," you respond with a forced nonchalance. You feel something in the pit of your stomach as you try to figure out why the hell millennials were allergic to labels. You look over to him, watching him smoke his cigarette. Fuck, that looked good right about now. You mentally remind yourself to have one when you get back indoors.

It was getting darker now, and you look at the boy, wondering what the hell he wanted. He was lingering for no apparent reason. "Trouble at home?" You ask, before you can stop yourself.

"No," he said, "everything is perfect." You didn't doubt it. Walter and Trish were the very picture of LL Bean catalog, Stepford Wives-level perfection.

The beginning of a chill traveled through the thick air. It was still humid, but the temperature was dropping at a steady pace. You take another swig, watching the pinks and purples fade to navy. Soon the mosquitoes would be out, ready to suck whatever your veins had to offer.

He's still sitting there. You don't know why. You're about to get up when a question comes to you. One you know you'll regret not asking. You calculate the right tone and wording. You turn your head, his profile increasingly becoming a silhouette, and pause before you open your mouth. "You said..." fuck, you're starting to regret this decision, but there was no backing out now. "You said you knew things about me." He turned his head. "What did you mean?"

You can barely read his expression, most of his face obscured or backlit. His tone is casual. "You know, just stuff." He shrugged. "I know you came from New York. I knew you were married once. I know about Sweden."

He's got it a bit twisted, but you know what he's alluding to. You're grateful for the setting sun now, as your expression darkens along with the sky. "You don't know anything," you tell him.

"I know you were a hero." He said, unfazed by the severity of your voice.

"No. I wasn't." You shake your head, rising to your feet. He stares, or so you assume, not saying a word. You take another swig of your bottle before taking a few steps toward your house. "You got it wrong, kid. Whatever you heard, whatever you read..." You trail off, shaking your head.

"I'm-"  _Sorry_. He was going to apologize, you can tell. You just don't care.

"I need to go," you reply simply, then walk into your house, ripping open your carton of cigarettes.

 


	14. Easy as Sunday Morning

You wake up in your room, lying next to a naked man whose name escapes you. His ass, impressive but aged, is uncovered by the blankets. Judging by the noises he's making, the dude isn't waking up any time soon.

You grab your phone from the nightstand and start zapping aliens. The audio isn't muted but you don't give a shit. If you have to be up at 11 in the morning on a Saturday, there's no reason anyone else should sleep. Besides, the sounds were pretty quiet- much less quiet than your bed mate's, anyway.

It's starting to come back to you now. You met him at a bar. This guy has no idea who you are, or what you do. You let him sweet talk you into a drunken fuck.

You play a few more games, sitting up in the bed. You're not leaving a strange guy alone in your room.

He's still snoring. You roll your eyes and grab the lighter from your nightstand, lighting up. The smells wakes the man a few minutes later. He groans and lifts his head. He's even more hot than you remembered. You can't help but smirk at the sight.

"Good morning," you say, amused by his bed hair and bloodshot eyes.

The man takes a moment to orient himself, looking up at you with bleary eyes. You watch as the light bulb goes off in his head, evidenced by a knowing smile.

"Hey," he says gently, reaching over to touch your hair. The man was probably in his late 40s, and clearly aged like wine. He gives you a look- a mix of of sympathy and adoration. "Did you enjoy that? Last night?"

"Sure did," you smile over at him. He scoots closer to you, stroking your head.

"You were excellent," he said, voice still gentle, "especially for your first time with a man." He paused. "Were you scared?"

"A little," you say vulnerably, taking a puff.

The man looks around, taking in your the sight of your room. "Does anyone live here?"

"No," you say. "It's just me."

This seems to comfort the man, and he leans in to kiss you. You meet him halfway, kissing him back.

"I should make you breakfast," he offers, a bit patronizing. You shake your head.

"I have to go to work soon." You look at him, hoping he gets the hint. After a minute of tense staring, he does, pulling his clothes on.

You pull on a pair of boxer brief, toss on a robe, and walk him to the door. He's visibly hungover, and you imagine his walk of shame will be excruciating. Luckily, that is not your problem.

As he puts his hand on the door knob, he looks at you one last time. His pained expression softened. More sympathy. "Hey..." You know all-too-well this is the beginning of the I-Didn't-Just-Use-You-For-Your-Body talk. He thinks you're like some teenage girl who lost her V Card to her stepdad or some shit.

"I had a good time," you assure him before he can speak.

He looks like he had something else to say, but simply replies, "you'll call me, right?"

You nod. "Of course."

He smiled politely. This seemed to convince him. His eyes look over your one more time, pausing on your lips and exposed chest. He leans in, kissing you softly. "It was nice meeting you," he offers kindly.

"You too." You smile back.

The two of you share a silence, the air thick with words unsaid. Finally, the man nodded, opening the door. It was disgustingly bright out, and you're grateful you don't _actually_ have to work yet.

You look at each other for another few seconds. You put your hand on the door, leaning closer. He's got one foot out.

"Goodbye," you say, still sweetly at him as he walks to the curb.

"Goodbye, Alec."

You shut the door and lock it, laughing.

_Men._

They're so damn egomaniacal they'll buy the closeted virgin act every damn time. You snicker, walking up the stairs.

Roger. His name was Roger, you remember suddenly. Not that it matters.

You take another hit of your blunt as you walk into your room. You grab a box of Lucky Charms, a plastic spoon, and a dirty bowl from the bin under the bed and get an early start on your munchies.

You pass out for a few more hours, your 3 PM alarm waking you.

Your texts are flooded with clients, but you're not leaving the house until the sun is down. You arrange meet ups, then watch some '90s NickToons.

5 hours and 3 tacos later, you're parked in your car. A few clients met up with you during your commute to Taco Bell, but this one was a special client. He seemed to think drug dealers were shady dudes with red-rimmed eyes and black ski caps, and you are more than amused to indulge that idea. You're sans ski cap, but are always sure to wear a black hoodie when this man calls you.

You're in what used to be a football field. No kid's used it for years. It's pitch black, but you're not putting your headlights on until he texts you. The cops have been extra annoying this summer. Sure, they're good for a laugh, but it gets old. You look out your window, checking for cop cars. None to be found. Not even Officer Brown Eyes, Credence's neighbor who seems to have a personal grudge against you.

Finally, the dude texts you. You flash your lights for a half a second and he climbs in your car, still in his suit. As always, his eyes are dodgy as fuck, as if you may mug or kill him at any moment. You've sold heroin to less paranoid people. All this guy wanted was weed and the occasional cocaine.

"Good evening, Henry," you pseudo-sing at him. You start to drive. Don't be in the same location for too long- his rules, not yours. You know exactly how this car ride is going to end. The man watched way too many crime flicks, so he always asked you to sample a join with him before he paid. It was all too adorable to truly infuriate you.

You park in the lot of an abandoned CVS. There isn't a soul who can see you.

The truth of the matter is drug dealers are more afraid of their customers than the other way around. You can't exactly call the cops if one of them assaults you. Henry is as harmless as they come, though, and you're not one to worry anyway.

You tell him to get to the back of the car. After some convincing, you're both in the back, and you retrieve the bag you hid from plain sight. He watched as you whip out a joint and smoke it. He doesn't look convinced, but takes the joint from you to try. You watch as he takes a hit and deems it worth his money. Onto phase two.

Sure enough, you end up pinned against the side of your car as Henry kisses you. You saw this coming a mile away. Despite what Roger believed, this wasn't your first rodeo. Not in general, and certainly not with Henry. You were rather accustomed to his tongue.

The man is a textbook closet case. You smelled it on him before he ever sat in your car seat. You threw a few innuendos here and there throughout your meetings, increasing them until he gave in.

You snatch the blunt from him and kiss him back, letting him inhale the smoke. He gives you a few more hungry, overly eager kisses before dropping to his knees.

"Good..." You reply, not hiding your smirk. He was such a cock hungry slut. It was glorious.

Within seconds, he's got your cock in his mouth. He's far from the best dick sucker, but what he lacks in ability he makes up for in sheer desperation. Unbeknownst to him, he is the third person to suck your cock in a 24 hour period. You lean into the car seat and smoke nonchalantly as he works. You know you should encourage him. Whisper praises and call him pet names. Not today.

You grip him by the hair, fucking his mouth. He doesn't protest.

A muffled sound echoes through the car. You realize your phone, wedged between the seats, is playing a specialized ring tone.

_Impeccable timing as always._

You take your phone out. "U.G." flashes on the screen. You reject the call, knowing you'll probably pay for it later.

Henry lifts his head. "Do you need to take tha---" You push his mouth back on you.

An hour later, you're in the driver's seat as a panting Henry walks- limps, nearly- out of the car, fixing the hem on his disheveled shirt.

He hands you the money- for the drugs, not the dick- and says goodbye.

"Til next time," you say, winking. "Say hi to your fiancee for me." You drive off, tossing your condom wrapper out the window.

 


	15. Liminality

Once again, you're forced to choose between two options- what is true and what is comfortable.  
As you stand in the bathroom, vigorously attempting to wash away a coffee stain, you ask yourself if you should bail. Not once, not twice, not fifty times. The option dangles just out of reach. You're tempted.

You stare at the water filling up the sink in front of you, then back at your reflection. There is an indistinct buzzing in your ear from a nearby fly.

You can turn back now- crawl in bed, catch a daytime talk show, organize your drawers. If you turn back now, Theresa stays the same. If you don’t, you give someone the power to change your wife. Add to her, alter her, maybe even demonize her.

You don't want to hear it- _whatever_ it is this guy has to say. Oh, for fuck's sake, that isn't true and you know it. The curiosity has been eating you alive. You even picked up the phone and called Marty just to yell at him.

You're a pill, you truly are. First you yell because the opportunity didn't come quickly enough, and now- as it's staring you in the face- you're contemplating running from it. _Typical._ If you were any more of a coward you'd need to buy all brown briefs.  
You splash your face, then take a good long look in the mirror.

You're not sure where, or when, but at some point you read something. Something like "people die twice- once when you die, and the other time is when the last person who knew you dies." You wonder if you're about to bury Theresa, as you know her, a second time.

_Maybe it's nothing. Maybe she knew a murder victim from work or something._

Yeah, that's it. She didn't do anything. She was just a third party in one of this Florian guy's crimes. A loose end.

This thought comforts you, and you feel your posture change.

You look at your reflection again, though the mirror stained with god-knows-what. Before you were an idiot with a coffee stain. Now you're an idiot with a coffee stain and a wet face.  
The buzzing is back now. You grunt, wiping your stupid face with a paper towel.

Without fully realizing what you're doing, your palm slams against the wall, squashing the fly.

It’s time now. You walk out of the bathroom and nod at a guard, who gives you a “you just spent twenty minutes in that bathroom while I waited” look. He escorts you to another room, where Marty offers you a bagel or donut. You decline. Where is this guy? This is the third room you’ve been taken to. First the lobby, then the office, now this shit hole. None of them have Florian Keller. Or answers.  
Maybe that’s what life is- just an endless series of rooms you thought would lead you somewhere.

Marty’s flanked by a few men and a woman, all of whom seemed to lack a personality aside from their pity eyes. You know a pair of pity eyes when you see one. They’re never welcome.

He walks up to you, putting a paternal hand on your shoulder. “We’re going to take you into another room now.”

_Great._

“Once you’re in there,” he continues, “we will be able to watch this whole thing.” He looks at you again, both sympathetic and reluctant. “I’m trusting you, Percival. You’re not one of my own.”

After cringing at your real name, you give him a solemn nod.

He continues still. “We’re watching it all from behind glass. We can hear every word. If you need us, you give us the signal. What word do you want it to be? It can’t be too obvious.”

“Turnip,” you suggest.

“No.”

“I don’t know,” you tell him, a clear note of irritation in your voice. “You tell me, Marty.”

Marty gives you a look, already annoyed at your temperament. _Too fucking bad._ He’s not signing your checks anymore.

He looks at you again, visibly taking note of the coffee stain on your collar. You don’t give a fuck. This is an interrogation, not the opera.

“Coffee,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond, annoyed. “I tried to get rid of it, but it won’t wash out.”

“No,” Marty sighs. “Coffee. The code word is coffee.”

“Oh. Right.”

You’re a fucking moron.

It takes fifteen minutes, during which you get scolded in advance by a man you barely tolerate, to finally get the ball rolling. The door opens. A trio of guards lead the group of you down a long, daunting hallway.  
The room is bland- all white except for the cheap black table parallel to glass- but not as bland as the investigators staring at you. Marty gives you another mini-lecture, which only serves to make you more nervous.

Fear clogs up your every pore. You can’t swallow. You can’t stand. You can barely breathe.

_You need to do this. You can panic later._

Marty gives your shoulder a pat again, then leads you to the glass. You hadn’t even dared to look.

On the other side of the two-way mirror sat a blonde man in a bright orange jumpsuit. He looks older than he did in his mugshot. Thinner, more dehydrated. Those manic eyes from the photograph are fixed on his hands, folded politely in anticipation.

His posture is not that of a scared man. Rather, he seems ready. Prepared. There is a small smirk on his face, which is the picture of confident nervousness- like a teacher’s pet on the first day of school.

You feel your firsts dampen with sweat.

Though his ego might have been deflated, he’s smug. Too smug. You can feel it from the other side of that thumbprint-covered glass.

With a dry gulp, you turn to Marty.

It’s time.

Somehow, the few feet between this door and the next seem longer and more daunting that the entire hallway.

Heart racing through every inch of your body, you put your hand on the doorknob. He can’t see you, but you’re convinced he can hear your heartbeat.

After what seems like minutes of lecturing yourself, you open the door.

You curse yourself for every second of your life that lead to this moment.

His dark blue eyes meet yours. His gaze is icy, as is the hue of his hair. With patronizing anticipation, he waits for you to speak first.

_Fuck._

“I understand you wanted to see me,” you say evenly, doing your best impression of a competent police officer.

He examines you from head to toe, sizing you up. You let him, then take a seat and pretend like it’s a coincidence.

“Charles Graves,” he says with recognition. It’s a name he’s heard before. You take this in, gulping, then nod.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Yes,” you say quietly, careful not to sound nervous. This man could smell fear. Everything from the subtle, electric sadism in his eyes to the small, ever-present smile at the corner of his lips tell you he’s way too confident.

“My name is Florian Keller,” he says. “I knew your wife very well.”


	16. Time

**October 31, 2002**

Halloween night.

\---

“Officer Graves, you son of a bitch.”

You turn around to find Jonesy- or, more accurately, Shaquille O’Neal- laughing in your ear. He’s about six beers in, but the night is still young.

“The fuck did I do?” You ask, knowing damn well what the answer is. Two of your buds grab you by the arm and shove you back onto the couch.

Jonesy laughs again. “If anyone sees this man,” he yells to everyone in the room, pointing at you, “try to walk out that door again- and he _doesn’t_ have a girl with him- you have my full permission to dunk him in the apples.”

“And he put razors in ‘em!” Tom quipped.

The boys all laugh.

“Got my eye on you, Graves,” Jonesy threatens jokingly. “I told you- you’re gonna have fun. I’m forcing you to.” He tosses you a beer, wagging his finger at you as he lectures you like a father. “The party officially starts in a half hour. Mope on the couch if you have to, but you’re not leaving until the last one of us passes out- unless you score. Oh, and if you think I accept that costume choice, you’re wrong. I just know I gotta choose my battles with you.”

_What’s wrong with dressing up as NYPD for Halloween?_

Through the glass panel on the side of the door, you see a parent with two ballerinas and a tiger. You reach out to grab the plastic pumpkin bowl and are immediately shot down. Roberts takes it from you and opens the door, greeting the kids and putting candy in their bags.

Jacob is in the kitchen, struggling to salvage the store-bought sheet cake he dropped after Patch tried to toss him a basketball.

Once Roberts closes the door, Benji and Jonesy call for a hustle.

“Listen,” Benji says, visibly inebriated. “Tonight is our night, alright? Listen. Listen. Last year, Halloween was a downer. A month after 9/11. Okay? Listen. No one’s pussy was wet. Morale was at an all-time low. But you know who the heroes were? The heroes? They... those.... were the NYPD. And that’s us. So now, everyone got a year to get over it, and the girls are all fucking horny for heroes. And you know who the heroes are? The NYPD. And that's us.” He took a long swig of vodka. “So the point… listen… my point here today is that is… night….” He paused to think. “...is gonna be the night… that we all _get laid!_ ”

A few guys cheer. You reach behind to grab a Mr. Goodbar and shove it in your mouth. Fuck, you don't even like chocolate.

Slowly, the apartment begins to fill. Three Christina Aguileras walk past you as Eminem plops on the couch next to you to better eat his Doritos. You chat him up- his name is Douglas, he works at a bank- while eating M&Ms even though you hate chocolate.

A few hours pass. The party gets larger, the crowd gets louder- and, sure enough, several of your work buddies disappear upstairs with female companions.

The novelty of counting guys dressed of Spider-Man wears thin. You’ve had several conversations with several people. Sum 41 is playing again as from Derek’s mix CD, on its upteenth loop.

You’re getting bored.

You stare forward at the television screen. In the VCR, someone put a bootleg version of some action movie. It since ended, leaving you to gaze blankly into static.

A pirate interrupts you to grab your empty beer bottle. “I don’t trust Jonesy to recycle this.” He pauses. “I care about the environment.”

You nod, barely listening, as you wonder if the computer room is occupied.

The pirate walks away, arms full of glass bottles. Almost immediately, Tom yells your name and demands you order some more pizzas. You grunt, getting off the couch for the first time the whole night.

“What kind?”

Tom shrugs. “Jonesy’s orders.”

You grunt.

After fifteen minutes of searching the party for Jonesy, then ten more of Jonesy and Benji arguing over pizza places, you finally grab the phone and make the damn order. Nothing’s ever easy- except the girls at this party, according to Benji.

Speaking of which, a girl squeals as the Backstreet Boys come on. Someone must have put in a new CD.

You plop back on the couch, waiting for the pizza.

Another half hour passes. The crowd diminished significantly. You had another micro-conversation with someone, and now you’re eating pizza again out of boredom.

Suddenly, something catches your attention. Barely visible from the couch, there is a girl in the corner of the next room. Clad in a light blue and white costume, desperately trying to reject a man’s advances. You look around the room, looking to see if anyone else is concerned by this. No one is.

You look at the situation again. It’s getting worse. He’s grabbing her arm- not violently enough to raise anyone else’s suspicions, but far too roughly to be civil. She’s looking away, trying to shove him off.

_That’s enough._

You get up, adrenaline pumping through your veins, and you deck that sorry motherfucker right in the face.

There are a few gasps behind you. You feel acid rising up your intestines, heart beating a mile a minute.

The girl looks up at you adoringly, her big brown eyes filled with gratitude. You offer her your hand and she slowly gets down from the shelving unit. Her heel knocks down one of Jonesy’s books from underneath.

She’s trembling.

“It’s okay,” you assure her. The girl nods, fighting back tears.

“Thank you,” she says. She’s upset. Fragile.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

She nods. You feel a flutter as the two of you meet eyes.

You lead her to the door, giving her a smile.

She meets your smile as you lead her outside. A group of small children walk past, tuckered out from a long day of walking for candy.

“I’m Charles,” you say.

She smiles brightly. “I’m Theresa.”

\---

You reflect back on that night, through the cheap table varnish, you stare at the reflection of Florian Keller’s jumpsuit.

That was the night you met her- an anniversary the two of you celebrated annually.

She was dressed as either Dorothy or Alice. You can’t remember.

Time does that. It changes things. It takes things from you.

You gulp, drenched in sweat. You fear the man in front of you was about to do the same thing.

He’s going to take her from you.


	17. New York State of Mind

**March 28, 2010**

 

Sanders straightens his scholarly bow tie as you walk into the briefing room. You give him an apologetic gesture as you sit, joining the rest of the force- all of whom are glaring at you for the timing of your bladder.

Instead of dignifying them, you bury your face into your mug of coffee. Staring back at you from a cork board is a photograph of a blonde man with particularly piercing eyes. Though you’ve never met, you know his identity- or, at least, partially. A notorious New York mob boss, current whereabouts unknown, even his name varies depending on the source.

With no confirmed name, age, family members, or location, the only definitive fact about the man was he spends significant time in Switzerland. For that reason, the force refers to him by the irritating moniker “The Switz.”

Judging by the cork board, The Switz is the suspected employer of a local criminal who was found dead late last night.

You stare down into your mug as Sanders briefs the room. Your fellow agents take notes, notably more casual than you. You haven’t stopped listening to every word out of the chief’s occasionally spitting mouth.

The Switz is a menace. Attached to countless crimes, a slew of deaths, and he is still free to buy chocolates and bank accounts til his heart's content. He deserves to rot in jail, living off fly-covered toast and expired oatmeal.

You catch yourself contorting your face into a look of disdain and remedy it. Luckily, every other agent is staring down into their notebooks or examining the photos. From the looks of it, The Switz was last seen in Atlantic City, New Jersey- some stereotypes are true- observing a poker game. A witness claims she saw him buying jewelry in Brooklyn, but the timeline doesn’t match up.

You stare into his eyes one more time. The photo mocks you from across the room.

_Bastard._

 

 

 

**May 14, 2011**

 

You cannot believe your luck.

A newlywed, at the prime of your life, and you just made the discovery of your career. Everything’s coming up roses and carnations, or whatever that saying is. That’s a song, isn’t it? From a musical? Yeah. That sounds about right.

_Focus._

Crouched in the backseat of a nondescript SUV, you close your eyes in a silent prayer. You’re not sure what god listens to men in soccer mom vehicles in the Meatpacking District, but you ask him to make sure you get home safely. The last thing Theresa needs is to plan a funeral when she hasn’t even finalized the wedding album.

You look out the window. From what you can see from your awkward angle, it’s a beautiful day. The sky is light blue with wisps of white, a perfect setting for this newfound fortune. Smiling, you imagine sharing the sky with Theresa as you tell her your good news.

_Don’t count your eggs before they hatch._

Like clockwork, the door opens at 2:15.

“Penny” Lloyd, a slight man with mousy tousled hair, walks out, his suitcase noticeably heavier than it was when he walked in. Surveying the street, he puts on a cheesy pair of aviators before walking away.

This is the smoking gun. You would bet your life on it.

But patience is key.

 

 

**June 29, 2011**

 

You’re inside Penny Lloyd’s apartment.

Judging by the decor, the man resides in the 1970s. It even _smells_ like a goddamn thrift store in here. Tarantino-esque posters line the walls, accenting the black, mustard brown, and pea green furniture.

You’re not sure the force would be thrilled you’re here. You’re also not sure you care.

You’ve finished going through his shit- nothing of note. You know all the damning evidence would be behind a safe somewhere- if it’s even in the apartment in the first place.

You aren’t left to think much longer.

From the other side of the door, you hear whistling, followed by the turning of a doorknob.

Paralyzed, you helplessly watch the door as Penny Lloyd walks in, holding a brown bag.

Instantaneously, panic appears on his face- though it is nothing compared to what you are feeling. He drops the bag, groceries tumbling out, and reaches down.

But you beat him to it.

You pull out your gun and aim it at his face.


	18. Duties

You puff on a joint, kneeling at the side of the bed as you watch your boyfriend sleep.

Not boyfriend. Employer-with-benefits.

He’s still asleep at three in the afternoon, though the newly-formed glare on his face tells you he knows you’re about to wake him up. He turns away from you with a groan, leaving you to stare at his tousled blonde hair. 

You know better than to try to coax him out, so you wait. 

Luckily, Alec doesn’t keep you waiting long. He lets out a long grunt and slowly sits up.

“Sup,” he says groggily, stretching. 

You should stop kneeling at his bedside, but you don’t, too busy watching him. You know it’s pathetic, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Alec strides over slowly. Eventually, he makes his way to your side of the room, his cock greeting you from mere inches away. 

He laughs at your reaction. You clear your throat, rising to his eye level as you hand him his frap. “Morning,” you mumble.

Alec, distracted in an apparent search for a clean shirt, sorts through his clothing pile. “How’d the delivery go?” He asks, rejecting various tees upon examination.

“No issues,” you tell him, straightening your posture.

Alec peeks over at you, the ever-present twinkle of mischief in his eye. “She offer you a handy?”

You laugh through your green straw. “Yeah.”

“Told you,” Alec winks, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers. He takes the joint from your hand, finishes it off, then gives you a lingering kiss. “C’mon. You earned a break, delivery boy.” Alec says slyly. He winks again, heading towards the staircase.

You observe him and gulp, once again remembering exactly how weak in the knees Alec Turner makes you. It’s a stupid vulnerability to have. Of course, it isn’t an entirely un-returned attraction. Then again, Alec was far from discriminating when it comes to his bed mates.

You look down at the hardwood floor, covered in plastic baggies, cereal boxes and stray socks. 

A creak brings you back to the present. Your eyes settle on Alec again.

If he’s concerned you’re not behind him, his face doesn’t give it away. He walks down the stairs, sipping his caramel frappucino with a brooding whimsy only Alec Turner could manage.

He tires of waiting for you and continues walking. Finally, you snap out of it, step out of the room and walk down the stairs. Alec, lying horizontal on the couch, smiles at you. 

“You gonna join me, delivery boy?” He snickers, licking cream from the end of his straw.

You sit by his side. “I’m not high enough,” you lament, only half joking.

Alec smiles, evidently seconding the notion. He reaches over to a drawer, pulling out a sizable bag of weed, then looks you over.

“New shirt.” He observes with appreciation. 

“Stole it,” you nod, which visibly impresses him. 

A few more moments of silence.

You eye the morning wood tenting underneath his boxers. Gleefully, he takes note of this and gives himself a few performative rubs for your benefit. After a few seconds, Alec evidently grows bored of this. He removes his hand and places it over yours, allowing you to feel him over the thin fabric. Alec writhes against your hands, watching you like a hawk as he does so. Your face heats up, but it is short-lived. Alec abruptly stops. 

“Pancakes first,” he whispers. You groan, finding it hard to move. “C’mon, Credence,” Alec whispers, both dismissive and encouraging. He flashes you a toothy smile.

With a sigh, you walk over to the kitchen. You shake your head at how easily you folded. Every single authority figure throughout your life has written you off as a rogue- a boy impossible for to them control. If they could only see you now.

As you take out eggs and milk from the refrigerator, you watch him on the couch. You hate yourself for being so weak for him, and you hate him for making you so fucking weak. Still, you’d rather be weak for Alec Turner than for anyone else.

It makes you feel a bit sick o the stomach to look at him, so you focus on anything else. Cracking the eggs. The font on the box in front you. The sound of the refrigerator. Your heart rate. 

Slowly, the smell of smoke and weed greets you, followed by the sound of cartoons playing from the other room.

By the time you finish your first batch of chocolate chip pancakes, Alec is flipping channels. 

“Almost done,” you call out.

Dozens of pancakes later, you finish and plop the plate between you as he hands you a fresh joint. 

By the time the plate is half empty, you’re both stoned- Alec more so than you. The soft buzz of a nearby fan has you nearly hypnotized while Alec cackles at a political ad proposing Henry something for governor. 

Your phone buzzes.

One new text. Modesty. “Mom needs you.”

You don’t reply, instead electing to get on your knees.

Alec smirks, running his fingers through your hair. “About time.” 

You shoot him a weak glare before remembering who you’re dealing with. He helpfully removes his boxers, which you replace with your hands and mouth. 

For now, between Alec Turner’s legs lies the perfect escape. He never asks you about your sister, or your parents, or what your “five year plan” is. Sure, that may be because he doesn’t care, but it’s a welcome change. 

Alec didn’t have to worry about shit. No longer on speaking terms with his parents and a rare home-owning millennial, he gets to live any damn way he wishes. You’re lucky, you think, that what he wishes occasionally involves you.

After finishing off the pancakes- and each other- the two of you are slumped on the couch. From the look on his face, Alec is about ready to fall right back asleep. The empty plastic Starbucks cup falls to the floor as Alec moves his feet to your lap.

He stares into space, heavy-lidded. Then, out of nowhere, he speaks. “You shoulda let her give you a handy.”

You wrinkle your nose. "Absolutely not.”

He laughs again. “She give you any trouble?”

“Nah,” you say, stretching out with a yawn. “Three hundred. Easy.”

Suddenly, Alec shoots up, an intense look in his eye. You know this look of his- you’ve seen it before, and hoped you’d never get used to it. It scares you more than any look that abusive woman gave you. 

“ _Five_ hundred,” he says, rage barely contained.

You feel cold sweat paired with hot acid rising up your throat. “No,” you croak. “You told me-”

“Get out.” Alec’s tone leaves no room for debate.

Stupidly, you try anyway. “Bu-”

“Out.” He glares daggers at you.

Weak, rejected, and nauseous, you reach into your pocket, opening up your wallet. “Look, I’ll-” you search for two hundred dollars you know you don’t have. 

“No.” Alec steps closer, tone an icy calm. 

“Bu-”

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he says. He takes another step closer.

“I-I… I’m sorry,” you stammer, barely a whisper.

The look he gives you is that of a disappointed parent, enraged employer, and betrayed lover all at once.

With your tail tucked firmly between your legs, you leave. 

You’re too high to drive, but too low to care, so you get in the car. The drive is incident-free, at least to your knowledge.

You stare at the house from your car window, dreading the all-too-soon moment you need to step foot inside.

When you finally do, your little sister greets you, reaching her arms out for a hug.

“Fuck off,” you say, marching up the stairs.


	19. Things that Start with B

**November 14, 2002**

 

You tap on the diner table, creating a rhythm of hollow knocks. Nerves have you digging your nails into the booth, creating a small tear in the cheap faux leather. Yellow-stained foam stuffing peeks out. You look around for witnesses, then cover it up with your jacket.

When she finally walks in, she spots you immediately and smiles brightly at you. Clad in a billowy white dress and a brown leather jacket, she sits on the other side of the booth.

“Hi,” you greet her, immediately falling victim to her smile. It’s dazzling. _She_  is dazzling.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Theresa says, taking the paper off her straw. “Am I late?”

“No,” you lie. “I was early.”

This seems to relieve her. Her large dark eyes soften. “I’m sorry. We ran later than I expected.”

You’re too much of a conceited moron to ask who ‘we’ means, or what she was doing. Instead, you simply nod, drinking your second refill of water. The waitress comes over.

“Oh! I was startin’ to think you might not be real,” she says to Theresa. This elicits a strained, nervous laugh from both of you.

She orders a blueberry shake. You opt to stick with water. Then you change your mind, flag Betsey down, and ask her for a Coke.

There is a thick silence between the two of you. You cover it up by staring at the menu. When Betsey returns with your soda, you glance over at Theresa, who is reading her menu quietly.

First dates are awkward under any circumstance, but this one was new. It isn’t every day you find yourself on a date with a girl you rescued.

The tension is palpable, though you aren’t convinced it’s two-sided. Maybe it’s all you. Maybe you’re projecting this whole damn thing, and every second you waste thinking about it is another second she’s wondering what the fuck is wrong with you. 

Now you feel even dumber. You bury your nose back in the menu, staring at the same three items over and over. The menu is only two pages. Hopefully she isn’t questioning it.

Theresa folds her menu and puts it back on the table. You can feel her eyes on you. She’s probably wondering what the hell your problem is, if she wasn’t already.

Saint Betsey comes back with her shake. “You ready to order?”

“Meatloaf,” you respond automatically, before Betsey could even shut her mouth. You knew damn well what you were ordering before you even walked in. “No mushrooms. Mashed potatoes.”

“You get another side,” Betsey says, jotting down your order.

Fuck, you should have let Theresa order. Fuck.  _Fuck._  Chivalry is dead and you killed it.

Betsey stares at you expectantly and you remember you have to pick another side. “I, er…” You start to feel hot. All that staring at the damn menu and you’re still unprepared. “Broccoli.”

This was apparently an acceptable answer. Thank fucking God. Betsey turns to Theresa, who casually removes her jacket as she orders a buffalo chicken salad. Betsey walks away.

“I don’t even _like_ broccoli,” you say with a smile, trying to break the ice.

“I do.” She laughs. “I’ll take it off your hands.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You fumble around a bit. She’s charming. Her smile radiates warmth. This should disarm you, but it just makes you more nervous. “I, er, hate ordering.”

You hope this attempt at small talk is not as idiotic as it seems.

“Why’s that?” She asks. 

“I guess I get performance anxiety,” you say lightly. She gives you another smile, probably one of sympathy.

“Oh, I know a thing or two about that,” Theresa says. She looks as though she wants you to ask her something, but you don’t. She continues talking. “I’m an actress.” Theresa pauses. “Well, not yet. But I want to be.”

You’re grateful for any segue you can use. “What kind of actress do you want to be?”

“Stage, mostly,” she says, then looks at you. “Have you always wanted to b-”

“Yes,” you answer. “As long as I can remember.” You’re still stiff, physically and mentally, but you’re getting there. She doesn’t seem to mind that you cut her off.

“Do you want a taste?” She asks, gesturing to her milkshake.

“No,” you reply, “I hate blueberries.”

“Blueberries and broccoli,” she laughs, nodding. “Got it.”

“Maybe I just hate things that start with B.” You grin, but immediately chastise yourself for that joke. 

“You may be onto something,” she nods, drinking some of her shake.

Theresa gives you another smile. This time, something about her it  _does_ disarm you.


	20. This Masquerade is Getting Older

The good thing about never settling in is there’s less of a mess when it all goes to shit.

A few medium-sized brown boxes sit on the table, mostly filled with long-expired frozen food. You look at one such dinner, topped with a pale yellow Post-It you scribbled your name on. What a waste.

Everyone is waiting in the hallway, distant but close, like when you want to eavesdrop on a fight without people realizing you’re snooping. They said their goodbyes, and now you get to be asshole they talk about for years to come. With boxes occupying your hands, you walk into the hall. A secretary whose name you never learned opens the door for you. She shoots you a pair of what you can only describe as ‘pity eyes’ as you take one last look at the building.

The boys in the garage, perhaps sensing your mood, say the bare minimum.

You turn on the radio just in time to hear Madonna warble _“say goodbye.”_

Fully immersed in your existential depression, you listen to the remainder of Take a Bow, nearly sobbing in the New York traffic.

It is absolutely, poetically, _pathetically_ appropriate. Eventually- not for years, but eventually- you would laugh at this moment. An adult man, brooding in his car, nearly crying to Madonna while a hot dog salesman loudly fights with a soccer mom.

Eventually, an air conditioning commercial comes on, taking you out of the funk.

Instead of risking another pseudo meltdown, you drive home in silence.

Home.

You’re thankful for home.

You’ll cry when you get home. When you cry at home, you have Theresa to comfort you.

_T_ _hank God for that._


	21. Break

With a jolt, you awaken.

The first thing you notice is harsh fluorescent light. The second is your coworker’s face, somehow even harsher.

You glance at the clock and grumble.

“I have ten more minutes.” Your tone is far from gentle. Were you even halfway awake, it would have been more intimidating.

Sandra is not sympathetic, nor is she amused. “The James boy said you offered to drive him home.”

“Did he,” you say, jaw clenched. Another in a long string of lies. You get up, nonetheless, making your way to the lockers.

“Graves.” Sandra calls after you, voice deadpan and full of judgement. “You got sweet and sour sauce on your elbow.”

With an embarrassed grunt, you make a beeline for the bathroom stalls. 

You don’t tend to the red goop caked on your skin. Rather, you lock the door and sit on the toilet, fully clothed. 

Grasping at your hair, you look down at the blue and white tiles, staring. They blend into a light blue blur, then revert back into their proper places.

Eventually, you summon the to stand up and take a good, long look at yourself in the mirror. Three weeks have passed since Florian Keller dropped a nuclear bomb on your entire existence. In those three weeks, you appear to have aged five years. Shadows envelop your face where light used to hit.

_Snap out of it._

After a splash of unfathomably cold water to the face, you rid yourself of the unwanted condiment on your elbow. With a sigh, you look at your reflection once again. Old. Gaunt. Miserable. Sopping wet.

_Great._

Glaring into your own eyes, you unclench your jaw for the moment.

Credence James is the thorn in your side.

And yet, like a fool, you’re going to drive him home.


End file.
